


Only the Moon Will See

by Leezih



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1950s, Anal Sex, Caning, Corporal Punishment, Denial, First Time, Greaserlock, Hand Jobs, M/M, Manipulation, Nerdy!John, Period-Typical Homophobia, Possessive Sherlock, References to Drugs, Religious Guilt, greaser!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-21 13:43:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 13
Words: 44,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1552502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leezih/pseuds/Leezih
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Light thinks it travels faster than anything but it is wrong. No matter how fast light travels, it finds the darkness has always got there first, and is waiting for it.</em><br/>- Terry Pratchett </p><p>Sherlock Holmes is and always will be a mystery. An unsolvable puzzle and an equation without variables. </p><p>A mystery with perfect hair and a scent of grease and cigarette smoke. </p><p>A sinful temptation.</p><p> </p><p>  <img/><br/>Art by <a href="http://obviously-my-division.tumblr.com/post/91845668204/greaser-otterlock-inspired-by-leezihs-only-the">Obviously-my-division</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He has felt it before. The ominous stare that is boring into the back of his head, seeing through the curls of blonde hair, layers of skin, and the hard occipital bone of his skull. Seeing straight into his very core. It feels like he is one of those anatomy models in Mr. Dunton’s Biology class, where each of the human organs can be removed for educational purposes until only an empty shell remains and you stand there with a heart or a brain in your hand. Maybe a lung or a kidney.

  
John likes the models. He sees beauty in the fragility of the human body. He likes how he easily can label every one of the plastic parts with worn edges and screws which do not really fit into the holes of the model after someone got the brilliant idea of smashing them into one of the desks. He likes to trace the blood vessels with a gentle fingertip, red for arteries and blue for veins. Oxygenated and deoxygenated. He likes to mumble the names of the different parts which his finger passes on its journey through the model, engraving them even deeper into his mind until he never can forget and will have the terms ready on his tongue if the topic ever is in focus around the Watsons’ dinner table.  
Eventually, his finger will be back at the heart and he carefully takes it out.

  
It goes easily, just as easily as the Greaser with hair dark as the night and skin pale as the moon stole his heart.

  
John would recognise the feeling anywhere. He has not yet turned around, but he can see the piercing eyes among the tiny, black letters in his copy of _Adventures in English Literature_. He knows just from the feeling of being dismantled like the anatomy model that Sherlock Holmes is standing behind him, tall, dangerous and perfect with cheekbones of which Montgomery Clift would be jealous.

  
He holds his breath when the staining odour of cigarette smoke grows too strong to be ignored and his heart skips a beat. He knows what is to come and a moment later, as his eyelids fall down, he allows himself to enjoy the feeling of long, slender fingers running up his neck and through his hair. He does not question it; he does not even show a sign of noticing.

  
But he notices.

  
“I’m giving you a ride home today.”

  
Sherlock never speaks to him. Never. The deep baritone voice is carried with the wind and it reaches John together with another wave of smoke. It paralyses him, leaves him speechless. Nearly two months have passed since that Wednesday when Sherlock first placed a possessive hand on his head, petted through his hair, and walked away without a word. Every day this process is repeated, until John learnt not only to expect it but also to accept it, and not once has a word been spoken.

  
Sherlock huffs, perhaps amused, perhaps annoyed. John cannot tell which when the Greaser steps into his field of vision and those long legs stretch out as Sherlock joins him on the grass. The teen’s face is an indecipherable mask. “You are allowed to talk.”

  
“I know.”

  
John’s two words sound childish, on the brink to defiant. Sherlock’s voice is deep and mysterious, his own merely a child’s in comparison. Two years are inevitably perceived as more than seven hundred thirty days when one party looks like a remnant of the Greek gods dressed in a Lewis Bronx leather jacket and smoking Woodbine.

  
“I know that I am allowed talk,” John tries again as his hands close the book in his lap. So far he has avoided Sherlock’s eyes, but with nothing left to distract himself with and with a growing concern of being rude, he lifts his gaze and bravely locks it with Sherlock’s.

  
The effect is immediate. A shiver runs down his spine, leaving a line of goose pimples underneath the perfectly smooth jumper of a colour which John calls blue but his mother insists is cobalt.

  
Sherlock must have noticed his reaction, for the symmetrical lips suddenly quirks into a smirk. “I’m giving you a ride home,” he repeats and gracefully lifts the cigarette to his lips for one last drag before he puts it out against the sole of his shoe and sloppily tosses the butt away.

  
John watches it fly through the air and disappear in the grass before he makes a half-heartedly attempt at a joke to conceal his discomfort. “I don’t get into cars with strangers.”

  
To his surprise Sherlock chuckles, but as soon as the teen opens his mouth it is evident that the reason for his amusement is something different than John’s attempted joke. “Oh, I believe we are well past strangers by now, Johnny,” he murmurs. “I have kept your back safe for the past two months and we are at the moment engaging in a conversation. To call me a stranger is unexpectedly cruel to come from the Golden Boy.”

  
Sherlock is not patient enough to let John’s confusion fade and leave room for a proper response. The pale fingers, which a moment earlier contaminated the fresh spring air by recklessly waving a cigarette, now curl around the strap of John’s brown leather bag and yank it up on Sherlock’s shoulder. The bag looks incongruous on the teen with the tight jeans and backcombed hair. Sherlock does not seem to notice the extra weight of books weighing John down every day and a moment later he is already walking back the way he came, John’s bag swaying by his side and with shoes soundlessly moving over the soft grass.

  
For a moment John just sits there, staring dumbly after Sherlock, before he snaps back to reality.

  
“Wait! That’s my bag. Where are you going?”

He stumbles to his feet and quickly places a hand on the rough bark of the old oak next to him when his head spins from the sudden movement. “Hello?” He bites his lip when the tall boy disappears around the corner of the school building. He does not want trouble, but nor does he want to return home without his school bag.

  
A second later and he is rushing over the lawn with _Adventures in English Literature_ in a firm grip, turning the corner and reaching the car park just in time to see Sherlock unload the bag in the passenger seat of a red 1952 Cadillac.

  
“That’s my bag.”

  
“I said I’m giving you a ride home.”

* * *

 

The journey in the car is awkward, but Sherlock does not seem to notice. He turns on the radio and taps his fingers against the steering wheel, matching the rhythm of the song blasting out of the speakers with inappropriate strength. John feels out of place. He, with his big glasses and neatly combed hair, does not belong in a car like Sherlock’s. In the corner of his eye he can see the tiny nail on the speed indicator rise and rise as Sherlock’s presses the car well over the allowed limit and John has to fight the urge to grip the edge of his seat in pure terror.

  
“Thank you for carrying my bag earlier.” John has to break the silence, although his arms lace protectively around the bag which now is placed over his thighs. The tones of Johnny Cash’s _I Walk the Line_ is not enough to make him feel comfortable. A part of him wants to add ‘If I am still allowed to speak’, but he quickly pushes the thought away.

Sherlock grunts.

  
“Do not feel obliged to initiate a conversation, John.”

  
The response is short and concise and John can practically feel the iron curtain Sherlock creates between them, impervious and loud in its pressing silence.

  
Baffled, John gives Sherlock’s profile a glance and then looks out the windscreen with a frown. He can only interpret that as a no to his unspoken question.

  
Johnny Cash is followed by Jackie Brenston & His Delta Cats, and before long the car comes to a stop. Apparently Sherlock knows where he lives, for he finds the correct street and even the correct house without uttering a single word.

  
“Right.” John’s fingers skim across the leather of his bag until he reaches the cold metal lock and he clears his throat. He cannot get his head around Sherlock, but he sees no reason why he should be afraid of talking. Why he should be afraid of the Greaser at all. “Thank you for taking me home.”

  
He waits, listens to the sound of fingers once again tapping against the steering wheel, but it is not until he loses his patience and reaches for the door handle that Sherlock’s clear voice is heard in the car.

  
“I will pick you up at 8.30 tomorrow morning.”

  
John freezes and slowly turns back to look at him.

“Excuse me?”

  
Another huff before Sherlock speaks again.

  
“8.30. Tomorrow morning. Write it down if you must.”

  
“I heard what you said. I’m just…” John scratches his head and takes a deep breath in the vain hope that it will clear his mind. “I don’t understand.”

  
John could have sworn that a small smirk tugged at the corner of Sherlock’s lips, but when he looks again the smirk is gone and the mask of cold, impermeable indifference has returned.

  
“Goodbye, John.”

* * *

 

As per usual, John’s afternoon is scheduled to the breaking point. Studying, the customary cup of tea with his parents once his father returns home, studying, dinner, and more studying. Those A’s will not come by themselves, as his father likes to remind him, and nor will those scholarships. It is not until he later that night settles in his bed with Carson McCuller’s masterpiece, that he has the time to reflect on the odd turn of events. It remains odd no matter how many times he twists and turns it in his head and before long he gives up the reading with a heavy sigh.

  
Sherlock Holmes is and always will be a mystery. An unsolvable puzzle and an equation without variables.

  
A mystery with perfect hair and a scent of grease and cigarette smoke.

  
A sinful temptation.


	2. Chapter 2

The Bible is where to look when in doubt, his mother says. To John, the Bible only speaks of sin. He remembers asking God about it during his evening prayer once, a long time ago, and when he woke up the following morning Harriet had just drunk the last drop of juice and he was left to drink milk.

Do not question God.

John tries to be a good human being. He goes to church with his family every Sunday. He prays with them before dinner, and he prays before he falls asleep. He even wears the golden cross necklace Aunty Margaret gave to him for his confirmation. He keeps it hidden underneath his shirt and jumper, but his mother says that as long as he believes it will keep him safe.

And John believes and he lives accordingly.

He does not want his stomach to tingle and squirm, filled with hundreds and hundreds of colourful butterflies, every time his sense of smell is overwhelmed by the scent of Sherlock Holmes. He does not want to be able to tell Sherlock apart from the rest of the Greasers at school, as if the teen were special. He never meant to get so accustomed to Sherlock sneaking up behind him and petting his hair that he now easily distinguishes the scent of after shave which hides underneath the smell of cigarette smoke and is so vague that he doubts anyone else notices.

It happens again the following morning. John is waiting on the pavement already 8:20, ten minutes before Sherlock promised to be there. His father has already left for work, but his mother is still inside the house and over John hangs the fear of her walking past one of the windows with embroidered curtains when Sherlock arrives. He does not know how he would explain why her son gets into the car of a rock n’ roll loving, smoking and clearly older teen. He does not even know the reason himself.

The minutes tick by and at 8:29 John folds his hands and sends God a silent prayer that Sherlock will have the common sense of turning off the radio. Or at least turn down the volume. God must have heard him, for when the Cadillac a moment later turns around the corner the only sound reaching John’s ears is the murmur of an engine and just like John had known, even feared, since Sherlock dropped him off the previous afternoon, his stomach tingles.

Sherlock, a man, another human being with an X and a Y chromosome, should not have that effect on him.

Today Sherlock has folded the roof. The sun that steadily increases the temperature shines directly into the car and John understands why the other Greasers cast longing glances after the convertible. There are many theories about how Sherlock got his hands on such a car. It is new, only a few years old, with a perfectly working radio and without a scratch on either paint or interior. Some say that Sherlock killed the former owner and stole the car, others that he secretly deals drugs. Although John is sceptic to the enthusiastic stories of murders and mafia bosses, he cannot deny the fact that Sherlock’s gaze alone is enough to freeze his blood to ice. Sherlock as a whole person could easily make a grown man burst into helpless tears and it would not be the first time a teacher flees a lecture in such a state, if John is to believe the rumours circulating the school.

He knows what Sherlock will do long before it happens. It has been deeply programmed into his brain during two months’ time and John feels himself wait for it from the moment he timidly sits down in the Cadillac. He closes the door behind him and as if the consequent click were the alarm awakening Sherlock, the teen extends a hand and the long fingers finally brush through John’s hair.

Just like they are meant to do.

John tries to pretend like nothing and carefully places the bag on his lap, but he immediately relaxes when digits meet scalp, involuntarily and guiltily. For the first time, Sherlock is able to see his face during their short ceremony and the self-awareness of this brings a deepening blush to John’s cheeks. It only lasts a second or two, but by the time Sherlock withdraws his hand and instead grabs the gear lever John feels also his ears burn with embarrassment.

Just like the previous day, Sherlock does not seem to be bothered by the silence which John perceives as pressing. Sherlock increases the speed once they leave John’s street and at the same time turns on the radio, just in time for them to hear the last tones of _Shake, Rattle and Roll_. The increase of speed also means an increase of wind and when John for the fifth time lifts his hand in an unsuccessful attempt to flatten the mess his hair quickly turns into, Sherlock snorts.

“You might as well give up, golden boy.”

John’s hand slowly returns to hold his bag and a moment later his hair is back in the wind ruffled state, but John seizes the opportunity to break the silence.

“I’m not a golden boy.” A small pause, and then he continues. “I’m not even a boy any more. I’m sixteen, a young man.”

Sherlock’s response is humiliating. He raises his eyebrows and a chuckle builds up deep down his throat until it reaches his lips.

“A young man? John, you said it yourself. You are sixteen. Sixteen. You’re an ankle-biter.”

 

Sherlock is still looking amused by the time they reach the school, the complete opposite to John who now pouts grumpily. He grabs his bag and makes himself ready to leave for first period when Sherlock’s fingers close around his arm.

“Wait. I can’t let you walk around the corral looking like that.”

John looks up at Sherlock’s eyes, expecting eye contact, but the Greaser’s gaze is firmly fixed on John’s hair. The hands are gentle as they do what John failed to do while the car was moving, with his fingers combing through the mess of blonde hair until it falls as neatly as always.

“There.” Sherlock fingers linger on John’s scalp, slowly moving down to brush over his forehead just below the hairline. “Much better.”

A shudder runs through John’s body when Sherlock lowers his gaze and their eyes meet, causing Sherlock to smirk.

“Only I am allowed to see you with your hair messy.”

Sherlock brushes a curl of blonde hair behind John’s ear and then leans across him to open the door. “Now off you go.”

* * *

 

The school operates like its own little society. The bulls and Greasers live side by side at the top, both groups convinced that they are the head of the self-invented government. They are followed by the cubes and at the bottom you find the nerds and the punks.

John is not sure exactly where he belongs and maybe Sherlock is right. Maybe he is the golden boy. He has excellent grades and gets along with the nerds, but he is also a decent rugby player with a fair chance of getting a sport scholarship if he against all odds would fail to get the academic ones.

John considers himself to be average. Nothing special, with an average name and an average appearance. While Sherlock is shining in his perfection, John is grey and dull. One in the crowd.

He shares a table with his friends during lunch. The sun is still shining and with a bit of luck they manage to get one of the tables where they can enjoy the warmth on their backs. The morning’s confusion feels distant as he laughs at some lame joke about their physics teacher’s new haircut and John is genuinely surprised when someone taps him on the shoulder.

“Sherlock is waiting for you, Watson.”

John can see David’s eyebrows practically disappear underneath his hairline before he turns around and finds himself staring into a white t-shirt. The leather jacket is thrown over the teen’s shoulder and once John lifts his gaze enough to look up at Gregory Lestrade’s pursed lips it is clear that he is anything but pleased with running Sherlock’s errands.

“He said you’d know where to find ‘im,” Greg continues and when John’s confused frown only deepens, he sighs annoyed.

“I’ve done my part,” he mutters and makes himself ready to leave. “Unless you’re cruisin’ for a bruisin’, I’d go and find him if I were you, Watson.”

John opens his mouth to say something, licks his lips and closes it again.

As Greg leaves them alone, John turns back to his friends. “I wonder what that was all about... What?”

He looks around the ring of stunned faces, one more horrified than the other. “Oh, come on,” he says with a roll of his eyes. “They are Greasers, not gods-“

“You should probably go, John,” David cuts him off, and Marilyn nods feverishly.

“It’s Holmes, John,” she agrees. “Remember Carl.”

“He did not kill Carl.” John says with a sigh, but stands and picks up the remains of his lunch nonetheless. “I’ll see you in class."

* * *

 

He catches up with Greg in the car park where the Greaser leans against the door of his blue Merc. 48. He does not seem surprised to see John there, but he waits for the other to initiate the conversation whilst tapping his finger against a glowing cigarette.

“What makes Sherlock think I will come running to him as soon as he calls?”

It takes Greg a moment to reply, but when he does John has the feeling that he gave the question a genuine thought.

“It’s Sherlock,” he says with a shrug. “He will have what he wants, eventually. If he wants you to come running to him, you will. And you will do so happily.”

“I’m not happy,” John protests. “I was having lunch with my friends.”

Greg chuckles. “He said you would say that. He also told me to inform you that all your friends hate you.”

Greg says it with such obviousness that John’s jaw drops, and a moment later he sees Greg’s face soften as the Greaser places a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey. It’s alright. He tells the inconvenient truth, I know. I still don’t know why I put up with him.” Greg rolls his eyes. “But I meant what I said before. Find him unless you want trouble.”

* * *

 

Sherlock is waiting for him underneath the oak, lying on his back supported by his elbows and glancing out over the school from the same spot where John was studying the previous day. John cannot understand what was so obvious about the secluded part of the school area that Sherlock expected him to immediately know where to look. As if the tree were their special spot.

The sound of his steps changes as he leaves the asphalt to instead walk on the grass. He lifts his gaze once he is sure that he will not trip on any edges, and nearly freezes in the middle of a step. The sun shines through the leaves of the oak and creates a magical scene before his eyes with Sherlock at its centre. A green shimmer which reminds John of a fairy tale falls over the Greaser, illuminating some parts of his face while leaving others in shadow and making it impossible to tell whether Sherlock would be the protagonist or the antagonist.

Sherlock sits up when John stops in front of him and looks down at his wristwatch. “I thought you had gone astray, John. I have been out here for a good twenty minutes.”

“How about giving me a treasure map with a big, red X next time, then?” John mutters, and Sherlock chuckles.

“Someone doesn't like having his lunch interrupted. A lesson to learn, John. Find the right spot from the beginning and you won’t have to move. Sit.”

Sherlock pats the leather jacket which he has placed on the grass next to him, inviting John to join him. 

“That thing you said about my friends,” John says when he after some hesitation sits down, ignoring the leather jacket offered to him and instead sits directly on the grass. “It’s not true. They wouldn't be my friends if they hated me.”

“Well, they do,” Sherlock replies with a shrug as he, with an amused expression, picks up the jacket and drapes it over his own shoulders. “They are jealous. The golden boy. Naturally, they feel threatened. You are John Watson, the most perfect boy this world has ever seen. You are a nerd, but with the characteristics of a saint. When the world sees something so pure, so perfect, it simply wants to-“ Sherlock’s hand moves down John’s temple, down to his neck where he takes a light grip and squeezes for a second. “Crush it.”

Silence follows, in which John forgets how to breathe. He sits there, in the green light with Sherlock’s hand resting dangerously around his neck, until the Greaser chuckles and gives John’s hair a ruffle.

“I understand you met Lestrade.”

John has to blink a couple of times once Sherlock’s hand is removed from his throat and it is not until his ears are whizzing that he inhales. “What?”

“Lestrade. Strong guy. Greaser with a silly haircut. You met him.”

“I know I did, you sent him.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and falls down onto his back with a hand underneath his head. “What else did he tell you? He talks too much.”

“Nothing.” John shrugs and unpacks his sandwich to finish his lunch. “He told me to find you and that was it.”

John can see Sherlock’s eyes narrow as he takes the first bite of what remains of his sandwich and a moment later he has to look away. The Greaser’s expression of dissatisfaction makes him feel uneasy.

“Lesson two, John,” Sherlock says factually as he sits up and once again can tower over John. “I don’t appreciate it when people lie to me. You may apologise and it will be forgotten, but next time there won’t be any second chances.”

John nearly suffocates on his sandwich, and once he has managed to swallow the piece stuck in his throat he turns to Sherlock with disbelief written across his features.

“You have got to be joking.”

“Clearly I'm not.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“Indeed.”

“So…”

“So apologise.”

John swallows. Although Sherlock’s stance is anything but threatening, he can see the seriousness in the Greaser’s eyes. Sherlock is prepared. John does not know what for, but he is prepared.

“…I'm sorry.” He mutters the words, and the next moment he flinches. Sherlock raises his hand, big and strong, and John can easily picture it crush both his glasses and his nose with ease.

But Sherlock does not punch him. Instead, he gently places his hand on John’s head.

John is baffled, but since the familiar petting is indisputably to be preferred over blood and pain, he stays quiet.

He does not realise what is about to happen until it is too late. Sherlock’s hand moves through his hair with a steady and predictable rhythm, up his neck, to his forehead, and back down again. Like a hypnotist, Sherlock entrances him until John’s eyelids fall down and he loses himself in the moment, a hand on his head, the sun keeping him warm, and the distant sound of birds and cars.

“You are late for your class, golden boy.”

John jumps when Sherlock murmurs in his ear and a moment later he scurries to his feet with his face flushed.

“I… I have to go.”

He does not wait to hear Sherlock’s reply as he picks up the paper which his mother wrapped the sandwich in. His legs cannot carry him quick enough as he runs towards the classroom he already ought to be in, not so much running to class as he is fleeing from Sherlock and the immoral contentment he brings forth.


	3. Chapter 3

Of course Marilyn would overreact. John is ten minutes late to class and suddenly everyone knows that John Watson, the golden boy, is in trouble with Sherlock Holmes. Rumours of the kind always spread like fire through a forest and by the time John excuses himself and takes his normal seat he can see his classmates stretch their necks to see if he has any visible bruises or a prominent limp.

Although rumours rarely touch John he knows better than to listen to them. It is not until he rounds the corner leading to his street that he wishes that people, just for once, would keep their lips sealed and simply mind their own business. Parked by the pavement, so perfectly in line with John’s home that it cannot possibly be a visitor of anybody else’s, is the unmistakable red Cadillac.

His mother is already waiting for him as he opens the door. Everything about her looks unusually tight, from her pursed lips to her carefully made ponytail, all reflecting the tight grip in which she holds a neatly folded paper.

“John Hamish Watson.”

Her voice is sharp and short and John’s stomach turns at the usage of his full name.

“Be so kind and explain this to me.” Her movements are controlled even as she angrily waves the piece of paper through the air, making it impossible for John to read as much as a word or even a letter no matter how much he squints behind his glasses.

“I don’t know what it is, Mummy.” In the end he sees no other way out than admitting that he stands clueless and a moment later his mother floods him with accusing words like a bursting pond.

John stands there with his head slightly bowed and takes it all, as surprised as he is terrified. His mother’s voice is still short and sharp when she eventually presses the piece of paper in his hand and looks him in the eyes.

“Everyone makes mistakes, John. What I cannot understand is why you tried to hide it from us. Your friend arrived with this note ten minutes ago and offered to explain. He is waiting for you upstairs.”

“Mummy, I-“

Mrs. Watson cuts him off and with a stern look and a light push guides him towards the staircase.

“You had your chance to explain, young man. I will listen to you and your friend over a cup of tea later. Don’t make him wait, it is rude.”

 

* * *

 

As expected, John finds Sherlock Holmes splayed across his bed. With the Cadillac parked outside it could hardly have been anyone else. The Greaser has closed his eyes. He is lying on his back with his fingers steepled in front of his face and, although the scene is very different from the lunch break they shared underneath the oak, John momentarily forgets how upset he is. Sherlock looks, as he identified already when the Greaser was carrying his bag, out of place. John’s bedroom has never seen such a scene and he doubts that it ever will again. He stops once he soundlessly has closed the door and stares, indulges himself in the sight of the slender teen, dressed in clothes which his mother must have been reluctant to allow in the house. Sherlock looks so peaceful that John does not know how to announce his presence. His feet are suddenly frozen to the floor, scared of making the boards creak and awaken the resting god in front of him.

There is something ominous about the beauty before his eyes.

“You walked home today.”

John nearly jumps when the deep voice breaks the silence. “I always do.”

Sherlock purses his lips and with a fluid movement he is sitting, looking at John with eyes making his blood freeze and his anger to be replaced with fear.

The note still pressed in his slightly sweaty hand is all but erased from his mind when Sherlock beckons him forward.

“I am disappointed, John.”

No hand brushes through his hair when John sits down on the bed and nervously licks his lips. Sherlock is emitting a penetrating coldness which makes the cones at Red's Ice Cream seem warm in comparison.

“I was waiting for you by my car, ready to take you home,” Sherlock continues.

John has no proper answer to that, nor does he dare to meet Sherlock’s eyes which he can feel bore into the side of his head like a pair of sharp scalpels used for frog dissection. Eventually he shrugs and, putting aside all precaution and thoughts about what Sherlock might want to hear and what could get him out of the bedroom and down the stairs in one piece, decides to tell the truth.

“I was not aware that you were waiting for me. Like I said, I always walk home.”

Nervous seconds tick by before John can see a movement in the corner of his eye. A spark of hope lights in his chest as he, stupidly, hopes that a pale hand is about to put an end to all this silliness. A moment later he finds himself staring at Sherlock, long fingers holding his chin firmly in place.

“Look at you,” Sherlock says quietly, and cold, emotionless eyes sweep across his face. “You want it so badly, don’t you? You long for it. It only takes two words, John.”

Sherlock’s fingers are cold against his skin, like a statue made of marble, and yet the digits burn. John’s heart is racing, thundering in his chest as if it is about to break free from his body.

“I don’t know what you are talking about.”

Somehow, and maybe it is the golden cross hidden underneath his jumper, he manages to keep his voice from breaking.

His mother’s voice reaches them from downstairs a moment later, and Sherlock slowly pulls away again.

“Two words, John.”

* * *

 

It is a completely different Sherlock who smiles at Mrs. Watson and sits down on the green sofa in the sitting room. John is so taken aback by the sudden change that he can do little but stare until his mother clears her throat and he quickly sits down next to Sherlock with an appropriate gap of air between them. The whole scene has remarkable resemblance to the interrogation in Hillary Waugh’s _Last seen wearing…_ and neither the tea nor the biscuits on the coffee table seem particularly appetising.

“How is the project going?”

John’s jaw drops when his mother speaks, but Sherlock does not waste any time before he replies.

“It’s going well, Mrs. Watson. I have good hopes that John and I will manage to get a high grade.”

“But I work with Mol-“

Sherlock cuts him off and a kick lands painfully on John’s shin.

“John is still working with the moles. Tricky equations. But not to worry, Mrs. Watson. We have it under control.”

John wants to tear Sherlock’s mask straight off his face and let his mother see what hides underneath, because the teen with the soft eyes and pleasant smile is not Sherlock. It is too perfect to be natural.

Or maybe, a part of him is simply jealous because Sherlock is smiling at his mother instead of him.

“Now, John, will you tell me why Sherlock here had to bring the note from Ms. Carroll?”

John’s attention is once again drawn to the piece of paper in his hand and he unfolds it, looking down to for the first time read the message written with the thin handwriting of his teacher’s.

“Well?”

“I have never seen it before, Mummy. I was late for class, but-“ John looks up and meets his mother’s serious eyes. “But Ms. Carroll never gave me a note.”

“So it’s a mystery, then.” His mother’s tone is sarcastic, but John’s confusion is genuine. Sherlock’s eyes, on the other hands, are amused behind the facade of controlled seriousness.

“I have to admit, Mrs. Watson, that although I came here to defend John and explain why he left Ms. Carroll’s note behind, I am starting to think that I might have been mistaken. I too would like to hear what John has to say for himself. For leaving me behind like that.”

John slowly turns his head to the side and meets Sherlock’s gaze. The robust words are gone, and so are the typical coldness and sarcasm in the Greaser’s voice. Sherlock speaks like the kind of person John’s parents pretend to be, but never can. Someone raised in a mansion with big, shiny halls and expensive paintings. Whose grandparents hosted dinners with butlers and big staffs, before the wars came and changed the old way to the new.

"What I have to say for myself?" John does not know whether to speak to his mother or to Sherlock, so his gaze keeps flickering between the two of them like a prey trapped between two predators. "Nothing. I mean, this is ridiculous. And Sherlock and I are not in the same class or even year, he is older than me. To think that Ms. Carroll would give the note to him instead of me, it's... well, it's ridiculous."

At the end of his little speech John looks more helpless than upset and he gestures with his hands and palms turned upwards. It is a mystery, just like his mother said. John would recognise Ms. Carroll's handwriting anywhere, he has seen it countless of times on the black board whilst taking careful notes in his English class, and he is equally sure that the teacher never intended to give him a note.

His mother still looks displeased and she stands with a disapproving shake of her head. "I will give the two of you five minutes alone," she declares as she flattens her skirt. "Clearly there are things that you are not willing to share with me, John. Five minutes, and when I come back you had better have a better excuse than 'it is ridiculous'. I am not the only one who is disappointed and shocked by your behaviour."

John can barely contain the groan until the sharp sound of his mother's heels dies out. "Of course she brings God into the picture," he mutters. "As if he would care about a silly little note." He turns to Sherlock and in vain expects him to be compassionate, as Sherlock only shrugs and leans forward, not to take a biscuit, but to run his palm over a crease in the tablecloth. The silence and attempt to ignore him reminds John of a grumpy child and too tired to deal with an eighteen year old baby he pushes the now crumpled piece of paper into Sherlock's cold palm.

"Explain."

Slowly, Sherlock turns to look at him.

"There is nothing to explain."

"I believe there is."

Sherlock's eyes narrow and John has to struggle to maintain the inquiring expression and not throw himself at the young man's feet and beg for forgiveness. "Please."

The word seems to help. Sherlock unfolds the paper and show John the short message he already has read. _Mr. J. Watson has been reported late for class on Friday 6th, 3:12 p.m. Further lateness will result in consequences. Ms. Carroll_.

"You were late," Sherlock says simply. "Twelve whole minutes, according to this report from Ms. Carroll. I don't understand what you want me to explain, John, it is all crystal clear to me. You lost of track of time with me underneath that tree."

"Well, yes, but-" John sighs annoyed and rolls his eyes. "I cannot tell _her_ that." He nods in the direction of the doorway and looks back at Sherlock, just in time to see those muscular shoulders pull up in another shrug.

"Not my problem, as far as I am aware."

"Sherlock, I-"

"It is your problem, John. Make something up, but do it now. I believe your five minutes are over."

Sure enough, John can hear the sharp clicks of heels approaching with an alarming rate and his eyes widen involuntarily as his pulse gains speed.

"Sherlock, I can't lie to her."

"Then tell her the truth."

"I can't."

"Not my problem."

"She said you came here to explain."

"I changed my mind."

"Please."

"Tell her the truth."

Over Sherlock's shoulder, John can see the shadow of his mother fall over the sitting room floor and he turns to the Greaser in pure desperation and blurts out the first thing that comes to his mind. Two words.

"I'm sorry."

* * *

 

Two words is all it takes in order to turn Sherlock from feared enemy to valued ally, similar to the way Italy managed to change sides with the Treaty of London. Sherlock is as cunning as a fox and as slippery as an eel and John has not opened his mouth when his mother a few minutes later accepts Sherlock's explanation of how they forgot about class whilst attempting to solve the moles equation still holding their otherwise brilliant project back. Sherlock even offers to bring the notes they made, an offer which Mrs. Watson thankfully declines.

John is back in his room before he knows it with both freedom and dignity intact and without a ringing ear and a burning cheek. He is so relieved that not even Sherlock's presence can dislodge the smile on his face when he drops down onto his bed and toes his shoes off.

"You were brilliant down there," he chuckles as he tosses his teacher's note onto his desk and folds his arms underneath his head. "Please tell me you're going to law school."

Sherlock snorts as he reaches for the paper and flattens it with long fingers. "Law school is for squares like you." He taps John's shoulder to make more room for himself on the blue sheets and lays down with his head supported by a pale hand on the temple hidden underneath the dark hair.

Silence follows, in which Sherlock stares intensely at John and John awkwardly tries to look anywhere but at the Greaser lying so close that he is sure that he could blow away the displaced curl in front of Sherlock's eyes.

Eventually John clears his throat. "I'm not a square."

Sherlock quirks an eyebrow and John involuntarily presses himself closer to the wall until Sherlock replies and his deep voice is nearly warm.

"You are right. You're not a square, not at all. You are golden. A golden boy."

John swallows when fingers graze down his temple and Sherlock's big palm cups his cheek. Unlike last time Sherlock touched his face, he is now gentle and the deep, mesmerising eyes find John's as a thumb skims over John's dry lips with a tingling sensation. "Come with me tomorrow, golden boy."

"I..." John can feel Sherlock's thumb follow the movements of his lips as he inhales shakily. "I need to study."

"I have written the address on Ms. Carroll's note," Sherlock continues and begins to trace lines across John's face with light fingertips. "I will wait for you there."

"But-"

Sherlock hushes him and once again places a thumb on John's lips. 

"I will see you tomorrow, John."

* * *

 

The sheets in John's bed carry a vague scent of Sherlock even after dinner, when the Greaser since long has left and the Cadillac no longer is visible from his bedroom window. John has locked the door to ensure himself that his parents will remain safely in the rest of the house as he lifts the pillow to his face and inhales. The scent makes his head spin and like a drug he finds himself unable to put the pillow down. The knowledge that he tonight will sleep surrounded by Sherlock's scent is overwhelming, but behind the joy lures the dark guilt. Hell, prison, and public disgrace await the man whose stomach tingles at another man's touch. Sherlock is the devil in human form, deceiving him to taste the apple.

Underneath Ms. Carroll's informative words is an address written and next to it, in exactly the same thin, slanting handwriting as his teacher's, is another message.

_Let today be a lesson to learn from, not a mistake to repeat._


	4. Chapter 4

John is close to changing his mind and turning back home a number of times as he walks down the pavement with the crumpled piece of paper in a tight grip. He decided to bring the note, even though he has read the address so many times during the morning that he can see the slanting handwriting on the inside of his eyelids, and it guides him through the streets to a part of town he only travels through by car when his family visits Aunty Margaret at her farm. The address itself tells him little of the location of their meeting. He is vaguely aware of the reputation of the adjacent streets and he had more than one reason to tell his mother a white lie regarding his plans that morning. He even brought his Chemistry book to ensure her that they are going to study.

The name Sherlock Holmes appeared to awake contradicting feelings in Mrs. Watson. A well-mannered, smooth-talking and intelligent Greaser is at the same time the best and the worst playmate for her son and John could almost see how she wished that she could peel the leather jacket off the boy and cut his hair. Keep the parts she approves of and make him a suitable friend and a decent human being with the prospect of going to heaven.

In practice, that would never work, and John is secretly pleased with that. The Greaser he is familiar with does not smile with horrifying perfection every time he enters a room nor speaks in a voice so pleasant that the words might as well come from Queen Elizabeth herself. The Greaser he is familiar with tosses cigarette butts on the ground, skips class and invites a reluctant John to what appears to be an abandoned warehouse. _You are entering B Street Bikers’ territory_ is written with large letters across the dirty bricks and John has no wish to do so. He does not want to enter anyone’s territory, especially not if it happens to belong to a group of strong Greasers with a natural habit of pushing around the nerds he calls his friends.

“Oi, you!”

John’s head snaps up so quickly that his neck hurts when someone calls for him and his hideout behind the corner turns out to be less protective that he had hoped it would be.

“Yes, you. Boy with the binoculars. Did they send you as a spy? We’re still going to blow them off at the drag next Sunday, tell 'em that.”

Leaned against the wall with a glowing cigarette nonchalantly between his fingers is a Greaser with a leather jacket similar to Sherlock’s. John had hoped to find at least Greg before he encountered another member of their gang, but in the absence of a familiar face his legs carry him forward as the teen begins to look annoyed.

“I’m not a spy,” he says and nervously licks his lips. “I’m… I am here to meet someone.”

“You’ve come to the wrong place, fream. This ain’t the library.” The teen glances down at the Chemistry book in John’s hand and he exhales a puff of white smoke as his face turns smug. “Or the labs. Cut out and play scientist somewhere else.” 

“But I’m actually here to meet someone,” John insists and quickly hides his Chemistry book behind his back when the Greaser attempts to take it from him. “Sherlock Holmes. Do you know where I can find him?”

The teen’s eyes narrow suspiciously and the intensive, blue gaze sweeps down John’s body.

“He gave me the address,” John continues and the Greaser takes the note John awkwardly offers him and reads it with his eyebrows sceptically rising.

“Are you looking for a knuckle sandwich? This ain’t even Holmes’ writing. It looks more like a ballad from your warden.”

John sees his note disappear into a pocket of the leather jacket and his hand closes in a desperate but silent wish to take it back. Somehow, the Greaser’s muscles are defined even underneath the bulky jacket and once the teen straightens up to his full height and towers above John he is sure that even Sherlock would feel short in comparison.

“I… I recognise you,” he stutters and takes a small step back. “You were in the rugby team. I am too. I was allowed in the team when you quit and they needed more players.” John makes a small pause and glances up at the face above, not sure whether he is increasing or decreasing the risk of having his nose broken. “I have been told that you were very promising. Very talented. The other players miss you.”

The Greaser snorts. “Of course they do, I was the captain.”

“So... why did you quit?” John asks carefully with his forehead furrowing in a frown.

“Because of… things.” A flash of insecurity crosses the teen’s face and, suddenly feeling more confident, John smiles encouragingly.

“What sort of things? Greaser things?”

A moment later he wishes that he had retreated while he had the chance. The flash of insecurity is nothing but a flash and it is gone so quickly that John is unsure whether he actually saw it as he looks up at the young man’s angry face.

“Are you writing a book? Get out!” A big hand on John’s shoulder pushes him back with such power that he nearly falls over and the authoritative voice that reaches them from a short distance nearly makes him wish that he had.

“Hey, nosebleed!”

Both John and the Greaser turn to look at Sherlock’s unmistakable silhouette where he stands half in shadow in the doorway to the warehouse. John bows his head in shame, for some reason feeling guilty for the incident, but Sherlock steers his steps towards the Greaser and without hesitation grabs his jacket to pin him to the rough wall.

“He is mine.”

Sherlock does not have to raise his voice in order to convey the threat. He says the words calmly and quietly, but with each syllable cold as ice and dripping with poison. To defy him would be to press the button and unleash the missiles.

The Greaser looks as though he is about to do just that, staring back at Sherlock without breaking the eye contact, until he shrugs and with a roll of his eyes pushes himself free. “Whatever. You can keep him, Holmes. I thought he was spying on us.”

Sherlock waits until the teen has disappeared inside the warehouse before he pulls John in towards his chest with a long arm and soothingly pets through his hair.

“What a moron,” Sherlock mutters, but John barely hears him. His cheek is pressed uncomfortably close to the cold leather jacket and the scent that suddenly surrounds him is even stronger than the hypnotising scent left by Sherlock in his pillow the previous night.

Eventually, too soon and after an eternity, Sherlock withdraws his arm and John straightens his glasses with a trembling hand.

“Let’s go, golden boy.”

* * *

 

Sherlock’s car takes them through the town and out to the English countryside which turns more rural the further they travel. He manages to find a road so narrow that John completely overlooked it and after a couple of minutes on the bumpy gravel the Cadillac stops.

“We will have to walk from here,” Sherlock announces as he turns the key and the soft purr from the engine dies out. “It’s not far, come on.”

Sherlock has parked the car next to an old and abandoned farm where, by the looks of it, the road ends. Most of the windows are broken and a dirty sheet floats gracefully in the wind where it is tied to forever dry. What remains of the unknown farmer’s history before he decided to try his luck at the industry in the town makes John shudder, but Sherlock steers his steps past the house and into the forest behind. John follows best he can, over moss covered rocks and through seemingly impenetrable thicket, but despite the regular rugby practices he soon feels his thighs burn. Sherlock trots on like an elegant gazelle and does not seem bothered by the obstacles nature puts in front of them as he purposefully and with accustomed steps proceeds forward.

John deeply regrets bringing his Chemistry book when beads of sweat form in his hairline. He could see Sherlock cast the thick book amused glances already in the car and he can only imagine what the Greaser will say once he realises that John has brought it with him into the deepest of forests. He runs his arm over his forehead and when he looks up again Sherlock is gone. The tall back he has used as a landmark since they first entered the forest is nowhere to be seen and John looks around with a confused frown before he cautiously continues forward. He pushes himself through a thick wall of bushes, that do their best to push him back again, and nearly jumps out of his skin when someone grabs his arm.

“Careful,” Sherlock warns him and hooks the arm around John’s waist to pull him back. “You’ll fall in.”

John lifts his gaze from the soft ground underneath his feet to look out over a lake with water so calm that the foliage above is reflected with the perfection of a mirror. The lake is small enough to swim across without any effort and around it, standing firm and protective, is a natural barrier of trees and thicket so close to the lake that it on some places is impossible to tell where water ends and land begins. The scene is breathtaking and John is filled with a sudden gratitude towards Sherlock for sharing it with him.

“Close your mouth, John. I can see what you had for breakfast.”

Sherlock chuckles and lets his hand brush through John’s hair as he pulls his arm back. “I found this place by accident,” he continues and sits down with his legs folded. “I come here when I need to think or get away from everything for a couple of hours. People can be so annoying. Sit.”

“It is beautiful,” John says and hesitantly sits down next to Sherlock once the Greaser places his leather jacket on the ground as a protection for John’s trousers. Sherlock seems amused by his decision to obey the request, but his hand immediately comes up to touch John’s hair in a silent praise.

“So you finally decided that my jacket is good enough for your cute little bottom?”

John blushes. “Well, I… B Street Bikers?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes at John’s obvious attempt to move the conversation from what adjectives Sherlock prefers in connection to his backside, but lets himself be distracted nonetheless.

“B Street Bikers, yes.”

“But,” John points out with a frown. “You have a car.”

“I do,” Sherlock confirms and places his palms on the ground behind himself and leans back. “Most of us do. Sebastian and Larry drive bikes and I am working on getting mine back on the roads, but most of the members have cars. Things don’t always go according to plan.”

“Oh.” John turns to look out over the peaceful scene in front of him, happy that things went according to his plan and they left the topic of his backside behind, but soon turns back to look at Sherlock when he gets the feeling of being observed. Sherlock, sitting exactly like before, is looking at him with almost hopeful eyes.

“What?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and sits up straighter. “Impress me. I know that you have figured it out.”

“Figured out what?”

The three words are enough to make Sherlock’s face fall into disappointment. “Why else would you bring that book? It’s just stupid.”

John looks from Sherlock to the book in his lap and up again. “Because my mother… Never mind. What are you talking about?”

“The B, John. The B.”

Sherlock sighs heavily when John still does not show any sign of understanding and runs a hand through his dark curls.

“But it is so obvious,” he mutters, before he raises his voice for John to hear. “Do you really think that I would add a random letter to the name for the looks of it? Don’t be slow, John.”

“B could mean anything,” John says helplessly with a knot of fear growing inside his chest. A fear that he will not have the right answer. That he will not be able to please Sherlock. “Bullet, belly, Bible…”

“It does not mean Bible, that’s for sure,” Sherlock snorts before he taps his fingers against the cover of John’s Chemistry book. “You are holding the answer in your hands, golden boy.”

John’s confused frown deepens as he opens the first page with a growing concern of being made fun of, before his eyes widen and his heart skips a beat as he is blinking down at a copy of the periodic table.

“B means… Boron?”

“Exactly. Boron.”

John stares at the small square filled with numbers and the, for some reason, important B, until he has to shake his head. “I don’t understand.”

“Clearly.” Sherlock’s voice is amused as he closes the book and places a finger under John’s jaw to regain his full attention. “And yet you have come further than most people. I am actually surprised by my own wittiness.” He makes a pause, offers John one last chance to solve the puzzle, before he rolls his eyes. “Boron rhymes with moron.”

John’s jaw drops. He had expected a detailed, impressive and complicated explanation to Sherlock’s choice of name. How the atomic mass of boron could be divided by the number of members to find a number transformable into something meaningful. Anything but a childish play with words.

“Moron?” he repeats sceptically. “The name of your gang is Moron Street Bikers?”

“It is surprisingly suitable, if you think about it,” Sherlock says with an amused twinkle dancing in his eyes. “The other members, the teachers, the students… People in general. They are all morons. They don’t even know that they are driving around with a logo on their leather jackets declaring them as idiots.”

“Well,” John says slowly and scratches his head. “So are you.”

To his surprise, Sherlock chuckles.

“For me, B means Boron. Low abundance on Earth and in the solar system. Similar to the way I am a rare element to the human species.”

John stares at Sherlock before he shakes his head. “You are unbelievable.”

* * *

 

John does not know how, but by the time the sun disappears behind the line of trees and clouds begin to take its place, he finds himself wearing the leather jacket to stay warm with his head resting on the Greaser’s lap. Both of them are deep in thought and the absence of words allows them to hear the sounds of nature around them as Sherlock’s hand rhythmically brushes through John’s hair.

He will never know what is going on inside that peculiar mind, but at the moment John can accept not knowing. Sherlock’s hand is heavy and speaks of protection and promises of affection. Of something John’s heart wants but his brain knows is impossible.

Of Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock’s hand closes around his and John opens his eyes to look down at the long digits carefully easing his grip around the small bulge underneath his jumper. He had not even realised that he was reaching for his cross.

“You are worried.”

John tilts his head back until their gazes meet and he is looking into the depth of Sherlock’s eyes.

“Religion is there to help you in times of trouble, John. If the thought of a slip scares you, you might want to reconsider your faith. Guilt and religion are not automatically intertwined."

Sherlock’s voice is quiet as he gently caresses John’s cheek and forehead.

“The interpretation of the Bible varies and changes and as I understand it, you base your faith on the interpretation of somebody else’s. You are free to make your own interpretation and no one can ever claim his or her faith to be more valid than yours. There is just one thing I would like you to take into consideration, my golden boy.” Sherlock’s fingers stop on John’s lips where they draw a broken breath from him. “Would the god who made it possible for your body to tingle like this really punish you for savouring the feeling?”

* * *

 

The sky is quickly darkening when they drive back home. The moon's appearances become scarcer behind the thickening layer of clouds and Sherlock rolls up the window once the first, heavy drops of rain hit the bonnet of the car. They do not speak or even look at each other. Sherlock is concentrating on the road and safely guides them through each turn, and John watches drop after drop peacefully roll down the window until the first lighting lights up the sky above and water patters against the glass.

” _One minded like the weather, most unquietly_.” John pulls his hand away from the cold window and wraps Sherlock's jacket closer around himself. ”King Lear.”

Sherlock grunts. ”You know your Shakespeare. Ms. Carroll would be pleased.”

John shrugs and makes an attempt to peel the leather jacket off when the car stops, but Sherlock places a hand on his shoulder.

”I want you to borrow it. I won't be around tomorrow, but wear it to school on Monday.”

John opens his mouth to protest and Sherlock gives him a reproachful look.

”Do not fight me, John. Wear the jacket on Monday. Find me during lunch break. Is that understood?”

”Sherlock, I have my own-”

”John.”

John sighs and sends his home with lit, warm and welcoming windows a helpless glance. ”Fine.”

”Is that understood, John?”

”Yes. Yes, I understand.”

”Good.” Sherlock nods approvingly and cards his fingers through John's hair. ”We want everyone to know to whom you belong, don't we?”

John nods numbly and, slowly, Sherlock leans closer. The sound of the rain fades into the distance as John's heart drowns everything but his irregular breathing and his pupils dilate to twice their size the moment before their lips meet. John's heart leaps in his chest and he gasps, horrified but unable to pull back, and the world seems to stop turning when Sherlock is so close that his breath spreads like a warm blanket over John's lips. John's head fills with thick fog and cotton, a pleasant state of dream and unreality, and he exhales shakily before Sherlock closes the distance between them and firmly presses their lips together.

” _Upon such sacrifices, my Golden Boy_ ,” Sherlock murmurs into the kiss as his hand protectively cups the backside of John's head. " _T_ _he gods themselves throw incense. Have I caught thee? He that parts us shall bring a brand from heaven. And fire us hence like foxes._ ”

John's lips are soft and insecure, Sherlock's unyielding and demanding, and the second before John's eyelids flutter close he can see the dark hunger luring in the Greaser's eyes.


	5. Chapter 5

It all feels like a dream when John wakes up the following morning. A black leather jacket is the only reminder of the kiss he and Sherlock shared, carefully placed over the back of a chair. What kept him dry the previous night now attracts his attention like a red cross left by a teacher on an exam paper, and John's stomach turns so painfully that he has to close his eyes. The clock on the wall ticks with an annoying rhythm which soon turns into a rapid chant of _you kissed a boy, you kissed a boy_ , a melody of guilt that cannot be muffled even by a pillow pressed tightly over his ears.

It is Sunday, church day, but when John finally drags himself down the stairs he is not wearing his suit. His mother looks up from the saucepan on the stove to see her son still dressed in his pyjamas and with his face pale. Mrs. Watson's forehead furrows as she stops stirring the porridge and, out of habit, wipes her already clean hands on the rose-patterned apron around her neck.

”You don't look too well, honey.”

John shakes his head and, unable to meet his mother's concerned eyes, looks down at his own feet.

”I'm feeling nauseous, Mummy. I... I don't think I will go to church today.”

 He does not have to fake the illness he claims to have. His stomach twists and turns, threatening to throw up the sandwich he grabbed from the kitchen before he escaped from everyone's sight the night before. The guilt makes his head spin and his hand is shaking when he leans against the worktop for support, half expecting his mother to be able to read the sin off him. To, with some miraculous method, see where Sherlock's lips touched his and how the Greaser's tongue, with the lightest brush, ghosted John's lower lip.

”Are you sure, John?” his mother asks and steps closer to place the back of her hand on John's forehead. ”You missed dinner last night, and now church... ”

She sighs when John ducks away from her hand and purses her lips in disapproval.

”Is it that Holmes boy, John? Has he been dragging you into mischief? Were you drinking last night, is that why you feel nauseous today? You know what your father and I think of such behaviour.” 

John blinks surprised and momentarily forgets the real reason why his stomach wants to turn inside out. ”What? No! Mummy, you know that I wouldn't do that. I don't drink, definitely not. Sherlock and I were... discussing Chemistry. The periodic table and elements. The abundance of Boron. I was not even drinking water yesterday. Which, when I think about it, might be the reason why I feel like this. Dehydration.”

His mother looks sceptic when she examines his grey skin and guilty, slightly distant eyes.

”Very well,” she says eventually and turns to pour John a glass of water. ”Let us get you hydrated. Drink this and then you are going to church with your family, young man.”

John reluctantly accepts the glass pressed in his hand and he looks down at the fluid which takes a warm beige tone from the reflection of his palm. He can feel his mother's eyes carefully observe his every move and he searches back in his mind for something useful until a biology lesson almost two months ago appears in his head and he slowly lowers the glass.

”I really shouldn't, Mummy,” he says and, despite the severity of the situation and the lie he step by step reluctantly but efficiently develops, he feels proud. His mother will most definitely be impressed and approving of his knowledge. ”I should not drink all this water now and then go to church with you. Drinking a lot of fluids at once can induce vomiting. It is better to frequently drink small amounts.”

He looks up at his mother when he is done and subconsciously licks his lips. ”It's a medical fact, Mummy. I don't want to vomit in church.”

After a stressful pause Mrs. Watson sighs defeatedly.

”Up to your room, then. I will leave breakfast for you in the refrigerator for when you get hungry.”

* * *

 

John returns to his room, but only long enough to see his parents step into the car and drive away. Once they are gone he quickly gets dressed and grabs the leather jacket, already closing the front door after him before he has swallowed his breakfast properly.

Somehow, he has to make things right again.

He does not know how to make last night undone, but returning the cursed jacket seems like a promising start. Once the wonderful scent no longer numbs his mind he might be able to think clearly.

He chooses a random route through town, on occasions walking down the same street twice, until no signs of Sherlock forces him closer to the warehouse. John's heart rate increases when his gaze falls upon the unwelcoming building and the fear of becoming the victim of a nameless Greaser's amusement is overshadowed by a new, more intimidating fear. He has seen Sherlock walk the hallways of school with a black eye and a swollen lip. Rumours describe him as a talented fighter, untouchable unless he is surrounded by five men twice his size, and John cannot ignore the fact that he is one teenager barely reaching to the other's shoulder.

To think that Sherlock would hesitate before redecorating his face is foolish. A small voice in the back of his head repeats Marilyn's warning words and he nearly groans to himself as he approaches the intimidating building with his back stiff. Leave the jacket and hurry home before his parents come back, that is all he has to do. A bold attack is half the battle and the knowledge of what would happen if his parents were to find the leather jacket in his room motivates him enough to push the door open.

What once was a warehouse is now turned into a garage which, to John's great relief, is empty apart from the car without wheels resting on support stands in line with the bigger gate next to the door. For a moment his heart jumps with excitement, as he hopes to simply leave the jacket in the car and disappear before anyone sees him, but the car is not Sherlock's. Losing a Greaser's jacket would be worse than tripping and spilling milk on it, and Mark was walking with a limp a week after that accident.

With his options limited and not even a frightening Greaser to ask for directions, John prepares to leave the warehouse and continue his aimless walk through the town. He turns around and even lifts his foot off the floor in the beginning of a step forward before his brain registers what he just saw and he automatically does a double take.

The man appears inch by inch in his field of vision and John's heart nearly stops when he looks up at the cold, emotionless eyes underneath two neatly picked eyebrows. His moment of shock must be visible for the man to see, for the tight lips in the pale and otherwise bored face quirk into an amused smile that never reaches his eyes.

John's fingers take a tighter grip around the jacket and the man follows the movement with his gaze. For a moment they simply observe each other, the man with an expression of indifference and John with his fight or flight response threatening to take control.

“This place was empty when I first entered.”

John's words sound almost accusatory and he swallows thickly when the cold gaze returns to his face.

“It was, yes.”

Even the man's voice is bored and it sends a shiver of unease through John's body. He waits for the man to continue with an explanation, but silence has once again fallen over them and John clears his throat.

“You don't look like anyone who belongs in a place like this.”

Dust has already formed white disruptions against the shiny black pair of shoes and the man has strategically positioned himself where he will not accidentally touch anything that could defile his suit, and yet he gives John a critical look and raises an eyebrow.

“Nor do you-” He makes a short, dramatic pause before he continues. “Johnny.”

John's heart does a heavier beat and then seems to disappear from his body as it, instead of blood, pumps out a wave of freezing ice.

“I came here to look for someone,” the man continues. “For a certain Sherlock Holmes. Ever since he decided to start avoiding me he has become sadly... boring.”

“If he is avoiding you it would probably be wisest to stay away,” John says quietly, but his words are ignored.

“Imagine my surprise when I, instead of Sherlock himself, find his new little _pet_. You know, Johnny, I have been thinking about a way to get to Sherlock. Everyone would be happier if he just came out of the dark hole in which he is hiding like a frightened little rabbit. Miraculously, I just happen to stumble upon his new pressure point. Happily unknowing.”

John shifts his weight onto his other foot. “Happily unknowing of what?”

“Of what is to come.” The man's cold eyes change to something close to amusement when he realises that John straightens his back rather than buckling under the subtle threat. “Already defending him, how touching. Association with Sherlock Holmes is dangerous. Do you by any chance recall the incident with a boy named Carl Powers?”

John shakes his head and looks down with a smile that tells the dirty floor just how tired he is of the rumour. “Sherlock did not kill Carl Powers. His death was an accident, everyone knows that.”

“I never said he did,” the man replies. “But I promise you this, John Watson. It was not an accident.”

* * *

 

John ends up bringing the jacket back home again. He hides it in his wardrobe, under neatly folded jumpers and shirts where the black creates a revealing contrast to all the soft and dim colours. His hands are trembling when he closes the door and he is left staring at them until he has to take a deep breath. The shock reaches him from nowhere, long after the menacing man left the warehouse and John numbly returned home. He stumbles backwards until the hollow of his knees collide with the bed and he limply falls down onto the mattress which offers his body a soft landing. The ceiling above looks the same as ever, but John hardly sees it. He is staring beyond it, into the mysterious space where tiny stars soon decorate his vision.

He cannot solve the puzzle Sherlock Holmes puts in front of him. The Greaser's motives, and even the Greaser himself, remain in the smoggy shadow, just out of John's reach. To lose himself in the threatening darkness is a frightful thought, and yet John finds himself drawn closer to the den of iniquity. Sherlock is reeling him in, inch by inch, and somewhere along the steady winding John became a pressure point.

 _A pressure point_.

The phrase is repeated over and over in John's head to the point that it loses its meaning and the next day he can nearly roll his eyes at the unreasonable words. Someone like Sherlock Holmes does not have a pressure point, especially not a pressure point in the shape of a square.

John has never felt more like one when he stands with the leather jacket in his hand outside the school gates on Monday morning. He cares too much about what people will think if he puts it on. The rumours will intensify and the connection between sharing a Greaser's jacket and sharing a bed is inevitable, a safe source of gossip about who is making out with whom. The headlines of the school.

To his surprise he makes it through first period, second, third, fourth, and lunch. He makes it to the last class of the day without Sherlock confronting him about the jacket that now is securely hidden inside his locker. In fact, Sherlock does not even look at him.

They walk past each other during the short break between second and third period. John is hurrying to Maths and Sherlock looks like he has not yet decided where to go, to class or outside in the search for something more interesting. John turns his head, expecting eye contact and an acknowledgement of the kiss they shared, but Sherlock's attention is focused elsewhere with such determination that it cannot be anything other than intentional. Concern takes a tight grip around John's chest and the trigonometry does not make any sense to him during class. Despite his best attempts to discard the kiss as meaningless and a sinful mistake, he cannot lie to himself. The kiss meant something to him, his inside tingled and squirmed.

He is becoming what his father warns Harriet not to become. The naïve girl who lets boys kiss them without a promise to call. Who innocently expects the boy to call her and who does not understand that she simply is being used.

During lunch John takes his sandwich and leaves his friends behind as he sits down under his and Sherlock's tree. He leans against the rough trunk and looks out over the school as he waits for Sherlock to join him, but the Greaser never shows up. John sees him by his car, smoking a cigarette and talking to Greg, who looks so upset that he eventually leaves and Sherlock puts out the cigarette against the sole of his shoe. The Greaser's gaze seems to scan the school area with exception of the part where John sits and then he saunters off, leaving John to finish his lunch without a big hand stroking through his hair.

* * *

 

He makes it towards Chemistry with steps as heavy as the books he carries in his bag when it is time for last period. The weekend feels distant, but now he finds himself fighting to remember rather than to forget.

_His first kiss._

Molly catches up with him in the science corridor. Her skirt is floating around her legs as she hurries her steps to grab his arm.

“I was looking for you during lunch,” she says cheerfully and quickly brushes a curl of brown hair behind her ear that has managed to escape her long braid. “I assume that you haven't heard?”

John turns to face her and blinks a couple of times to replace the mental image of Sherlock just before their lips met with the girl in front of him. Molly's obsession with Sherlock is one of the saddest things John has ever seen and he feels nearly guilty when he sheepishly returns her beaming smile.

“Hi, Molly. I was having my lunch under the... Heard what?”

“They say Mr. Morgan quit. Just like that.” Her eyes widen as she delivers the news. “I don't know if it's true, but he is not here today. Chemistry is cancelled and we can go home.” Her smile fades slightly and she sighs. “And we worked so hard to finish that project, John! Who do you think will be our new teacher?”

John scratches his head awkwardly when Molly showers him with her usual enthusiasm.

“Well,” he says slowly. “We don't even know if we will get a new teacher, right? It sounds like a rumour to me. Mr. Morgan has been working here for years, why would he quit?”

Molly rolls her eyes. “I don't know. But it's exciting, right?”

John sighs. He can not say no to Molly's thrilled face. “Sure, Molly.”

“Didn't I tell you so?” Molly's smile widens before she leans closer as if to share a secret. “So what is going on between you and Sherlock?”

“Between me and... What?” John involuntarily flinches and he steps back to stare at Molly. “Nothing. Nothing is going on between me and Sherlock. He is a... Come on, Molly. He is a Greaser.”

Molly shakes her head and glances over John's shoulder before she looks at him with reproachful eyes. “Don't lie to me, John. He has not been able to take his eyes off you the whole day.”

John chuckles with a shake of his head. “No, you're mistaken, Molly. Trust me, that's not true.”

“But it is,” Molly insists and nods at something behind John's shoulder. “And if there isn't anything going on between the two of you, why would he be here right now? I know Sherlock's timetable by heart, and he should be in Maths right now. In the opposite end of the school.”

John's heart jumps and he slowly turns around to look at the tall Greaser who approaches them with the leather jacket in his hand. He is vaguely aware of Molly running her hand over her braid and pulling it to fall down her front as Sherlock stops in front of them and raises an eyebrow.

“Don't you have better things to do right now, Molly?” 

Molly giggles and takes a better grip around her books. “Nice to meet you, Sherlock.”

She sends John a meaning look when she walks away and John wishes that he could be as happy with Sherlock's presence as she is. He already knows that she will repeat Sherlock's words over and over in her head until they turn into a declaration of his affection. 

The real Sherlock is less pleasant and John swallows thickly when their eyes meet.

“I took the liberty of breaking into your locker, John.” 

John's gaze moves down to the jacket and he nods briefly. “I can see that.”

He refuses to break down. He refuses to give in to Sherlock's psychological games and manipulation, and yet he flinches when the Greaser speaks again.

“I told you to wear the jacket." 

John licks his lips and looks down. “I didn't want to.”

“Excuse me?” 

“I didn't want to.” John speaks clearer this time and looks up with defiant eyes. “I didn't want to wear your jacket. People would know that we-” He cuts off and looks around in the empty corridor before he continues with his voice lowered. “Kissed.”

“Would they?” Sherlock asks coldly and tilts his head slightly to the side. “Would they know that we, two boys, kissed, or would they assume that you stand under my protection?”

“Well,” John begins, but Sherlock cuts him off.

“I'm not interested in your excuses, John. I told you to wear the jacket and you didn't. It is as simple as that. I am deeply disappointed in you.”

John can only look at Sherlock's eyes for a short period of time before he feels the need to look down and instead study his shoes. He should not care as much as he do, but he knows what Sherlock expects and he also knows that he will carry the lump of guilt in his stomach until he gives the Greaser what he wants.

“I'm sorry.”

“You're sorry and...?” John can easily picture how Sherlock lifts a pointing eyebrow and he continues in a defeated voice.

“And I will wear the jacket.”

Sherlock's bigger shoes steps into his field of vision and John feels how the jacket his draped over his shoulders.

“Good boy.”

Long fingers dispose John of his bag and then gently guide his arms through the sleeves of the jacket. “I want you to wear it tomorrow, John. I have had enough of your little whims. An apology will not be enough next time.”

Sherlock tilts John's head up with a possessive grip around his scalp and with thumbs underneath his jaw to keep him firmly in place as he steps forward and forces John up against the lockers.

“You look too appetising for your own good, Golden Boy,” he breathes and leans down with his body pressed against John's. “I should just smash your face and make you undesirable for everyone but me. The mere thought of you with somebody else is simply... unbearable.”

John's breath is irregular and his heart is racing when he looks up at Sherlock with his lips parted, waiting for the demanding and yet perfect lips to press against his with unwavering strength as the Greaser claims what belongs to him.

Sherlock's tongue pries John's lips apart and violates his mouth before John realises that the kiss is less innocent this time. He gasps and pulls away, but with the locker and Sherlock's hands behind his head there is nowhere for him to go. Sherlock rolls his hips as their tongues meet and skilfully draws an involuntary moan from John's lips.

Sherlock pulls away with a smirk and presses their foreheads together, pleased with John's light panting.

“Don't fight it, John,” he murmurs and ghosts his lips over John's. “We both know how badly you want it. How you crave it. Your body knows to whom you belong, even with your head still denying it.”

The Greaser's long fingers card through John's hair and he nearly gives in to the urge to sigh. His blue eyes seek Sherlock's and he slowly licks his lips which still carry the taste of the other boy.

Wonderful and forbidden at the same time.

* * *

 

Sherlock takes him home and lets John leave the car with a last reminder to wear the jacket the following day. John can only nod and pull the jacket tighter around himself. He watches Sherlock drive down the street and disappear behind a corner before he turns around and walks into the house. 

All doubts are gone. The first kiss could be called a mistake or an unfortunate incident, but as soon as their lips met for the second time they were kissing for real. They would have been a couple if one of them had been a girl. John does not know what kissing twice makes them, but he does not care. The label is not important and it would be full of sin.

All he knows is that his brain has to make way for his heart.

Kissing feels good and no god would make it possible for his body to tingle that way and then punish him for savouring the feeling.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

It is obvious the next day that Sherlock does not trust him. John kisses his mother goodbye and leaves the house, only to see the red Cadillac parked by the pavement. His steps become nervous when he trots up to the flowerbed under his window and retrieves the bag he hid there the night before. The bag keeps the jacket from becoming wet, and the flowerbed his mother from noticing the jacket.

Sherlock leans across the passenger seat to open the door for him and John smiles insecurely as he clumsily climbs inside with his two bags.

”Good morning, Sherlock,” he greets and closes the door after him. “One moment, jacket...”

He opens the bag with a glance up at the house and carefully pulls out the black outwear which does not hold even the slightest resemblance to anything he or anyone in his family own.

“It is too big,” he mumbles and extends his arms in front of him to see the sleeves cover his hands and fingers. “It makes me feel like a toddler.”

“Didn't I tell you you're merely an ankle-biter?” Sherlock hums and rewards John with a hand stroking through his hair a couple of times. “I happen to like this jacket on you, so you will wear it.”

The Greaser's long fingers trail down the black sleeve and manages to find enough of John's hand to liberate it. He laces their fingers together and John nervously licks his lips when he looks down at the natural arrangement of digits, fitting together as perfectly as puzzle pieces.

Sherlock lets go of his hand only to shift gears. John can understand why Molly and the vast majority of the girls would walk over corpses to sit in a Greaser's car with their hands joined and with  _Folsom Prison Blues_ sounding from the radio as the wind plays in their hair. It gives peaceful a new meaning. People can stare and they will stare. Sherlock's jacket keeps him warm and the Greaser's thumb strokes soothingly over the back of John's hand.

This time he does not try to flatten his hair. He lets the wind ruffle what he so carefully combed, he lets it turn the blond hair into a mess that brushes over his forehead.

John can feel that something has changed between them. It is not the kiss. It is not the hand holding, the jacket or the silly exchange of words. It is the way John's stomach tingles and how he allows himself to feel. How he allows himself to appreciate Sherlock's graceful silhouette from the corner of his eye and how he expectantly tilts his head to the side when Sherlock's hand leaves his for a moment in order to comb through his tousled hair.

If sin feels so good he never wants to be cured.

His silent joy does not falter until Sherlock drives through the school gates and John's heart drops together with the speed of the car until they are parked next to the other Greasers' vehicles. His posture immediately grows tenser and his tongue flicks out to, with a nervous motion, wet his lips.

“Jacket stays on,” Sherlock orders as he turns the key and the engine dies. “They have already seen you. If they are like a pack of wolves in your eyes, do not let them see you frightened or ashamed.”

John feels both frightened and ashamed when he steps out of the car. He feels like a target of ridicule, red in his face and clumsier than ever in the big jacket with sleeves refusing to stay above his wrists.

He heaves the school bag up on his shoulder and walks towards the building with a glance at Sherlock, trying but failing to prepare himself for the dreadful day ahead of him, but the Greaser calls him back.

“John Watson,” he announces as John reluctantly joins his side. “Any harm done to him will be done to you times ten, like Sebastian already knows. Understood?”

John swallows thickly when he lifts his gaze and it falls upon the tall Greaser he met outside the warehouse. Their eyes meet for a short second before Sebastian snorts and grumpily looks away, and John wonders if he now hides a bump underneath the Duck Butt his hair is combed into.

“Cut the gas,” the Greaser mutters. “I never touched 'im. He looked like a punk who'd gotten lost from his keepers. Not my fault he refused to tune out even after I quoted. He even brought his mush.”

John looks down again, but Sherlock immediately raises his cold voice.

“Lestrade, make sure John gets to his class. I need to have a word or two with this moron here. John, do fix your hair.”

John stares at Sherlock for a moment before he flinches and quickly lifts his hands to do as he is told. The mess is harder to appreciate once the wind stops blowing through it.

Greg looks about as happy to guide John through the already familiar corridors of school as he was last time he executed Sherlock's request. He makes a small jerk with his head to show John that it is time to leave and then turns around with his hands in his pockets. John can feel heads turn in their direction as they cross the school yard and make it into the main building and the unwanted attention makes his ears glow. The leather jacket illuminates him like an actor on stage despite its black colour and John hurries his steps to walk next to Greg in the vain hope that it will camouflage him.

“So... Have you heard about Mr. Morgan?” John turns to Greg, trying to start a conversation in order to distract himself from his staring audience. “It was rather pleasant to have a class less yesterday, wasn't it?”

“John.” Greg sighs and places a hand on John's arm to stop him. “Don't do that. Just because Sherlock dresses you in his jacket and you suddenly find yourself surrounded by Greasers do not mean that you have to change. Mr. Morgan was moldy, yes, but you probably went home crying yesterday because you missed an opportunity to learn.”

“I'm not... I'm...”

John blushes and Greg gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

“It's fine, John. Just drop it. No one is going to fall for your little act anyway. Besides, Sherlock seems to appreciate your nerdy side. He has been spending a lot more time in the library this year, and if you ask me it is not because he needs to send university applications. It wouldn't surprise me if his books have peepholes.” He rolls his eyes and continues down the corridor. “So where are we going?”

* * *

 

The way to Biology is rarely intimidating and has not been dangerous since the time someone accidentally produced a thick gas with a suspicious smell of burnt rubber, but it not until Greg joins him on a bench in front of the locked classroom that John becomes suspicious. He glances at the Greaser from the corner of his eye with the growing conviction that Sherlock not so much placed Greg there to protect him as he wished to make sure that the leather jacket stays on. His fingers tug gently at the sleeves and his gaze returns to the odd sight of leather against his tanned skin. What looks natural on Sherlock, Greg and all the other Greasers looks so very wrong on him, like a girl wearing the wrong shade of her lipstick.

“So what's your tale, nightingale?”

John looks up with a guilty expression when the Greaser speaks and then frowns. “Excuse me?”

Greg rolls his eyes and straightens his back from the relaxed position in which he was sitting. “You are not exactly the type Sherlock normally surrounds himself with. I don't know why he keeps me around, but usually he has a purpose behind it. Something to gain.”

He looks at John expectantly and when it is clear that also Greg had a purpose behind his words John shrugs.

“I don't know,” he says honestly. “He might want me to do his homework.”

Greg snorts with a shake of his head. “Believe it or not, but Sherlock is a genius.” He chuckles at John's expression of disbelief and Greg gently pats his arm. “I know, he doesn't look like one. But I'm telling you, he would be a nerd if he weren't such a flutter bum. And if he bothered to show up in class every now and then. He calls them a waste of time.”

John nods slowly and thoughtfully looks away. He has seen Sherlock exploit Molly and her unconditional love ever since the headmaster gave in and granted her and her self-invented Science club free access to the labs for harmless and by a teacher approved experiments. Molly's enthusiasm does not falter although she remains the only member of her club and she is still convinced that Sherlock will join her if she lets him access the labs just once more.

John does not know what he has to offer Sherlock. The Greaser can get both legal and less clumsy kisses from any of the girls who would be nearly as happy as Molly to be the special one, and yet Sherlock elects to kiss him. Sherlock forces secret after secret upon him until they build up and threaten to trickle out through his ears like thick grease unless he shares them with someone.

“Greg,” he says slowly and bites the inside of his lip. “Do you know if Sherlock ever... I mean... Sherlock and I, we-”

A sharp sound from the bell cuts him off and John looks up to see the door in front of him open. Greg gets up with a groan and gives John's arm another pat.

“You can tell me later, all right? Sherlock would remove the breaks from my car if I didn't get you to class on time. Later, gator.”

John swallows thickly as Greg leaves him and he picks up his bag to enter the classroom. He should know better than to tell anyone. The secrets Sherlock gives him are secrets that he has to take to the grave.

To the grave and possibly even beyond.

* * *

 

By the time John takes his lunch to the tree the news of him – rugby player, perfect student and overall square – wearing a Greaser's jacket have been ingrained and branched throughout the school with the impressive speed of McDonald Bailey's equivalence of the world record in Belgrade. If the rumours have reached Sherlock the Greaser does not show any signs of knowing as he beckons John forward with a long finger and with what John could have sworn is a proud smirk.

“I should throw your other jacket away and leave you to wear only this one,” Sherlock muses as John sits down next to him with his legs pulled up into a triangular shape.

“Oh no you shouldn't,” John says quickly, not for a second doubting that the Greaser is serious, and then frowns as Sherlock huffs disapprovingly. “What? I need my jacket.”

“There is no one here, John.” Sherlock barely lets him finish before he continues with his bored voice. “The amount of grass between us is simply pointless, and by pointless I mean utterly ridiculous.”

John licks his lips and looks around. As always, Sherlock is right. He can see a few teens at the car park, but the majority of the students are currently enjoying their lunch in the cafeteria or by the tables hidden from their view by the school building.

“This is what most people would call an appropriate distance to somebody else,” John mumbles, but moves closer to Sherlock nonetheless with a roll of his eyes. “You are so sure that I want to sit next to you.”

“Hush, John,” Sherlock says and as expected hooks an arm around John's body to pull him in the last couple of inches until their sides touch. “Are you not more comfortable like this, my Golden Boy?”

The long fingers move like spider legs when they possessively stroke over John's shoulder and arm and John soon sighs defeatedly. He is more comfortable with the heavy arm around him and with the special scent of Sherlock so strong in his nostrils.

“I came here to eat my lunch,” he points out and shows Sherlock the sandwich in his hand. “Not to... cuddle.”

The word feels wrong on his tongue. Two boys cannot cuddle. Cuddle sounds intimate, romantic even. Something couples consisting of one boy and one girl do.

“There is nothing preventing you from doing both,” Sherlock says sagely and guides John's head down onto his muscular shoulder. “I, on the contrary, came here to cuddle, and it would be most rude of you to deny me that. Now eat your lunch, John. I would hate to see you go hungry.”

Their position becomes less comfortable as Sherlock keeps his hand on John's head, not brushing through his hair but rather keeping him in place. Pressed a little too tightly with fingers spread a little too widely to be affectionate. Affection is a feeling that does not belong in the Greaser's eyes.

John lifts the sandwich to his lips and the long fingers immediately start moving with soft, rhythmic motions.

The chain reaction is triggered and John relaxes. He cannot help it, the digits carding through his blond curls and the nails scraping his scalp send a signal of pleasure to his brain, making him lean up further in a quiet demand for more. The times when he flinched at the touch are since long gone.

Just like last time, John ends up with his head on Sherlock's lap. Sherlock is lazily smoking a cigarette, which appears to be his replacement of a proper lunch, and John can see the white smoke curl above his head and fade out into nothing. There are a few moments in his life when John remembers being so filled with genuine happiness that nothing else matters. When he won his first rugby game, when his family went to France and when their father one night revealed the television set in the sitting room. His body tingles with a similar feeling when Sherlock's hand keeps stroking through his hair and the sun reaches them through the leaves of the oak just enough to warm his face.

Sherlock makes him happy.

“Does it not bother to cuddle with a boy?” John asks quietly as he lifts a hand and tentatively traces the sharp jawline in Sherlock's face.

Sherlock chuckles and catches John's hand to press a soft kiss to his palm. “Oh, I've done a lot more than cuddling boys,” he says with his eyes moving across John's fingers and the well-trimmed nails. “Things your innocent mind can't even dream of.” He lifts his gaze and looks at John, whose cheeks gain an ever increasing pink shade. “Or maybe you can,” Sherlock adds with a smirk. 

John shrugs and looks away. His mind, which usually is just as innocent as Sherlock first assumed, insists on filling his head with pictures of Sherlock. Sherlock naked. Sherlock with soft, pale skin and Sherlock doing things to another boy for which he could be convicted.

Sherlock doing things to John.

Thoughts that never should have crossed his mind. 

“That blush suits you nearly as well as my jacket.” Sherlock's voice has dropped and is now darker, huskier. He places a palm on John's burning cheek and John's gaze is involuntarily drawn to the beautiful face above. “I imagine you to look just like that the first time I undress you and slowly examine every inch of your body.”

John's stomach does a somersault and he barely notices licking his own lips before Sherlock's finger traces the lines of them. A moment later his head is lifted up from Sherlock's lap and the Greaser leans forward, joining their lips in a kiss that draws a desperate whimper from John. 

The world is Sherlock.

Sherlock and a pair of lips that never should have touched his. 

* * *

 

John's pink blush is still decorating his cheeks when it is time for last period. His fantasies about Sherlock are so distracting that he nearly hopes that Mr. Morgan will not be back so that he can take a moment to calm his nerves before rugby practise, but the door to Chemistry is unlocked and open. John sighs as he hurries inside and takes his usual place next to Molly, who turns to him with her forehead furrowed.

“Where have you been?” she hisses. “Class is just about to start, he has already called your name.” She licks her lips almost mischievously as she leans closer to whisper in John's ear. “Isn't he cute, though? I bet he is clever, too.”

John frowns and gives Molly a look of disbelief. Unless Mr. Morgan's absence was due to a journey back to the man's twenties, he cannot see how the teacher would be considered cute.

“Molly, what are you-”

Molly does a jerk with her head and John follows the movement with his gaze. The man standing with the back to them is as smartly dressed as Mr. Morgan, but his hair is not white and his posture is not sunken with age. He moves his arm swiftly and unhindered over the board, neither sweating from the effort nor groaning when his joints refuse to lift his arm high enough. A low buzz is filling the classroom as students exchange theories and with curious eyes follow every move of the white chalk over the black board until the name  _Mr. Stokes_  appears with neat, thin letters.

“You certainly have a thing for men with dark hair, don't you?” John huffs and receives a sharp elbow in his side as Molly tries to look stern but cannot hide a small giggle.

“Tell him that you're here or you will get in trouble,” she whispers and yanks at his arm to get him to raise it before she quickly brushes her hand over her long braid. “Do it, John.”

John gives her an amused glance as he lifts his arm fully and attracts the teacher's attention. He cannot help but feel relieved that Molly appears to have a new victim for her affection, even though Mr. Stokes' love is as improbable as Sherlock's. If Molly starts dreaming about another man he does not have to feel as guilty when the Greaser decides to kiss him.

“Excuse me, Mr. Stokes? I'm afraid I arrived a minute or two too late. My name is John Watson.”

The teacher's dark gaze falls upon him where it scans his face for a moment before he opens his mouth.

“And what might be the reason for your late arrival, Mr. Watson?”

The buzz has suddenly stopped and everyone's attention is focused on him with the exception of Molly, who hardly can take her eyes off Mr. Stokes. The leather jacket still hangs over John's shoulders, like a billboard for anyone to read, and he can easily picture what they must all be thinking as their interest move from the new teacher to John.

The Greaser is ruining the Golden Boy. Taking him in his claws and transforming him until the boy with straight As and a respectable appearance is late for class twice, wears a leather jacket and carries a faint smell of cigarette smoke.

It is the same thought that passes through John's head when he looks into the teacher's eyes and tries to find his voice again.

“I was... stopped along the way.”

The truth is too humiliating to share. He made it through English, but once it was time to change classrooms for last period he had to escape into the bathroom for a while. Block the door and splash cold water on his face. A few drops are still visible on his neck, peacefully rolling down his skin and forming dark circles on his shirt collar. The evidence is so subtle that it is nearly invisible, and yet he feels the need to pull Sherlock's jacket tighter and hide his jumper from Molly and the teacher.

“I'm sorry, Sir,” he adds. “It will not happen again.”

“Have you ever heard of such a thing as first impression, Mr. Watson?”

The man's voice is indecipherable and the emotionless eyes make John squirm. 

He does not like when new teachers join the staff. There is something frightening about it, although Mr. Stokes looks anything but threatening with his scrawny figure. He cannot know how stern a new teacher is, nor how generous he is with the cane. And more importantly, a new teacher cannot know that he, John Watson, is a perfect student who differs from the rest. They will be in a relationship of ignorance until John gets a couple of As and proves himself worthy of the special treatment that he receives from the rest of the teachers.

Until then, he is as likely to be told to bend over as the rest of the students for insignificant mistakes like being late.

John likes to think that he does not step on anybody's toes, but in the moment of silence when everyone is waiting with bated breath for the teacher to declare his decision, John has the feeling that at least some of his classmates wish for the Golden Boy to receive a punishment. It would be the first time, and Sherlock's words return to him when he feels the subtle malice.

_All his friends hate him for being perfect._

He licks his lips and looks up, just in time to see Mr. Stokes' gaze move from the leather jacket to his face, and he quickly opens the jacket enough to let the teacher see the clothes he is carrying underneath. Not white, not with stains of grease. A soft jumper over a checked shirt, respectable and proper.

“Very well.” Mr. Stokes puts the chalk down and carefully wipes his fingers on a handkerchief. “Do not let it happen again, Mr. Watson, or there will be consequences.”

* * *

 

Mr. Stokes' class opens John's eyes to an unpleasant reality. He cannot remember a single teacher who has not approved of his knowledge and thus liked him, nor did he want to believe Sherlock regarding the loyalty of his friends. He blames it all on the cursed jacket, and yet he cannot stop himself from all but rush into the Greaser's arms when he leaves the the locker room after rugby practise with his hair damp and body exhausted.

Sherlock huffs surprised, but does not hesitate to wrap his arms around John's shoulders and pull him in behind the building where they are less likely to be seen.

“Seems like it was a wise decision of me to wait for your practise to finish. Is anything the matter, John?”

John can only shrug and pulls Sherlock with him as he stumbles back, only stopping once his trembling body is trapped between the rough brick wall and Sherlock's protective form. Safe and hidden.

He should not feel so fragile and useless. He is ashamed, frightened and shocked, all with a feeling of unreality and denial. What makes his feelings even worse is his incapability of transforming them into words and explain why. He has no reason to seek comfort in Sherlock's calming presence, a presence which merely weeks ago would have been stressful. Nothing happened, neither with Mr. Stokes nor with his classmates. The lesson carried on as per usual, Mr. Stokes collected their group projects and none of the other students even breathed a word about a wish to see John suffer.

Sherlock tilts his head up and kisses away tears that John was not aware of shedding.

“I need you to take a deep breath, John,” he says with remarkable softness in his voice. “Focus on breathing.”

John looks up at Sherlock with the Greaser's big hands on each side of his face.

“You don't understand,” he whispers. “I'm... In class... You don't understand.”

He groans and rubs his eyes in frustration when the words fail him. Sherlock would call him spoilt. Ungrateful and over-sensitive.

“John, I know exactly how you feel.”

John reluctantly looks up at Sherlock, who brushes his blond hair back from his face.

“I do,” he promises and leans down enough to kiss John's forehead. “You are confused and guilty. Confused because you do not understand your feelings, and guilty because you know that you should not feel like this. Possibly a little frightened, because you fear to be judged.” Sherlock cups John's chin and he brushes their lips together before he continues. “Something happened in class today and you know that you are overreacting, but that does not stop your urge to cry it out. The feeling inside you is too strong, it is crushing the barriers you try to build. You know that you have been blessed with so much, a caring family, education, a time of peace, a loving boyfriend-” John looks up and Sherlock smiles momentarily. “You know that, considering everything you have, you should not let something as little affect you to such a great extent. Do not worry, John. I understand. I have been there myself and I know exactly how you feel. Sometimes the smallest thing is what finally breaks us.”

* * *

 

John is not aware of how long they remain in the shadows. He loses himself in Sherlock's embrace, who does not show any wish to move until John is ready. He can hear the rest of the rugby team leave the locker room, he can see the lights being put out one after one as the teachers retreat to their offices or to their waiting cars, and eventually he rubs his wet cheeks.

Sherlock has shown him a different side of himself. One that is caring and understanding. Molly is falling for Mr. Stokes. His friends hate him and Sherlock is his boyfriend.

John lifts himself up on his toes and his red and swollen eyes close. His lips are trembling when they find Sherlock's, pressing against them with hopelessness and fear but with steadfast determination.

Sherlock's tongue does not force itself upon John. The Greaser waits with his lips ajar and with a gentle hand on the back of John's head guiding him, silently encouraging him to do what Sherlock already has shown.

The kiss is graceless and John soon lowers himself back onto his heels, but Sherlock has never looked more satisfied as when he runs his fingers through John's hair.

“What changed, my Golden Boy?”

John can feel the Greaser's warm breath on his skin when Sherlock carefully unites their foreheads. Sherlock fills a hole inside of him he never was aware of. Sherlock is the missing piece that makes him whole.

A small smile decorates John's lips as he bows his head slightly, just enough to tuck it in under Sherlock's chin, and he exhales a single word with a soft and happy sigh.

“Everything.”


	7. Chapter 7

Having a boyfriend is much like bringing a tube of Spangles to school. It is wonderful and John wants to enjoy it in public and among his friends, but cannot breathe a word of it to anyone lest the consequences would be fatal. Another simile that John fabricates as the days pass is that it is a thing best taken in small doses, like cough medicine. Sherlock fills his mind from early morning to late night, but John's feelings are so overwhelming that he cannot absorb more than a limited amount of the real teen at a time. When the Greaser starts drumming his fingers against the table in the library or resorts to point out minor mistakes in John's homework, John has to send him away. Rude as it might be. He cannot concentrate on his school work with Sherlock's deep and sensuous voice too close to his ears and with a foot slowly brushing his shin under the table.

Good grades have never been more important. He has to prove to everyone, including himself, that he still is the perfect boy he was before Sherlock intruded on his life.

The rides in the Cadillac to and from school are now a part of his daily routine, and so are the lunch under the oak, the kissing after rugby practice and the attempts to study with Sherlock flopped down on his bed. He even wears the leather jacket without neither protests nor hesitation. The rest of the students slowly accept it as normal until Sherlock, who appears to be pleased with John's development, takes the jacket back and lends it only on special occasions. John is too happy to notice that those special occasions tend to occur when the situation enhances Sherlock's possessive side.

Sherlock takes him away from Nowheresville and out on adventures. Some of them leave him breathless, like the kissing sessions in the back of the drive in theatre, and others, like visiting the shops, are more innocent.

Sherlock buys him gifts, just like John would have done if he had a girlfriend. _Johnny Cash with his hot and blue guitar_ joins John's collection of records after Sherlock explained that it contained the song playing on the radio the very first time John sat down in the red Cadillac. Sherlock also buys him a bracelet, a simple gold chain but with a price tag that makes John reconsider the rumours about Sherlock's hidden identity as a drug dealer and killer. John only agrees to wear the feminine accessory, under the sleeve of his jumper, once Sherlock agrees to do what John wants.

The photo booths.

They have been on John's mind for a couple of days, the small booth with a curtain protecting them from insight. Sherlock huffs annoyed when he is forced inside by John's eager hands and he gives the lens a look as though he hopes to burn it with his eyes. John ignores him as he puts the coins into the machine and smiles as brightly as the sun when the first photo is taken. He melts the Greaser's grumpy mood with a kiss on his cheek for the second photo and for the remaining two Sherlock leans down to kiss him on the lips with an arm around his shoulders.

Sherlock does not want to admit that he finds the photographs enjoyable, but he still claims one of the kissing photos and leaves John with the remaining three. John loves them all, the grumpy Sherlock, the surprised Sherlock and the kissing Sherlock. It is the first time he sees them kissing and John cannot stop looking at the way their lips meet and how Sherlock looms over him. He looks so small next to the Greaser.

* * *

 

John is happy for exactly one week and two days. One week and two days is how long it takes Mr. Stokes to mark their Chemistry projects and one week and two days is how long it takes John to receive a note instead of a grade identical to Molly's.

_I expect to see you in my office after class. Mr. Stokes._

A handwriting has never looked more intimidating, even the three dots look oddly vicious. John has never been summoned to a teacher's office before, but he cannot see how it would lead to anything good.

He chooses not to inform Sherlock of the change of plans. John has learnt two things about his new boyfriend and he cannot fully approve of them. One is that Sherlock wants to know everything. Where John goes, what he does and who he meets. Sherlock is also more protective than what would be considered healthy, and he is banned from the rugby field ever since he decided to hunt down the player who tackled John to the ground. John appears to be in enough trouble as it is, without Sherlock causing physical harm to a teacher.

Mr. Stokes has inherited Mr. Morgan's old office. John passes the door in dark wood everyday on his way to class until it turned into a solid part of the wall to which he never paid any attention. Until now. The yellowing name tag with the fading writing is replaced with a new, whiter piece of paper and the minor change is enough to turn the familiar door into black, unknown water.

John deliberately waits as long after class as he dares, until the hallways are empty and there is no one around to see where he is going. There is shame in knocking on the door to a teacher's office. Perhaps not for Sherlock, who he imagines to be spending more time in the offices than in class, but for the Golden Boy it is a new low. The drop must be historical, both in speed and in depth, and all because of one, irresistible boy.

_There is no darkness but ignorance._

John takes a deep breath and straightens his posture like the brave soldiers in his History book as he knocks on the door and is called inside. Mr. Stokes is sitting behind his desk, a desk that John suspects came with the room and once belonged to Mr. Morgan. The wood is as dark as the door and the beautiful carvings speak of prestigious public school rather than the average building in which it is currently located.

Mr. Stokes does not seem bothered by the fact that he looks as small behind the desk as John looks next to Sherlock. The man waits until the door is firmly closed and then shows John to take the seat in front of the desk, on a chair that is hard and uncomfortable.

He follows John's gaze and gives the surface of the desk a small stroke with his hand.

“Beautiful, is it not? Mr. Morgan was never my favourite teacher, but I always did admire his desk. Curious how things turn out.”

John allows himself to lick his lips and moves his attention from Mr. Stokes' hand and up to his face.

“Do you know Mr. Morgan, Sir?”

“Knew him, at least,” Mr. Stokes replies as he leans down to retrieve something from inside the desk. “This is the school I went to before university. I hated every minute of it.”

The bundle of papers lands on the desk with a low thump and Mr. Stokes' expression immediately turns more serious.

“Can you tell me what this is, Mr. Watson?”

John leans forward to see and shrugs slightly. “It is my and Molly's Chemistry project, Sir.”

“Wrong.”

Mr. Stokes' voice is not loud, but the word cuts through John's body and seems to paralyse his spine.

“This is Miss Hooper's project. I have studied it five times, Mr. Watson, and all I can find regarding your participation is your name scribbled on the front. I do not tolerate this kind of behaviour and laziness, is that clear?”

John can only stare at the front page. He can see his signature, sloppy amongst Molly's neat text, but Mr. Stokes has got it the wrong way around.

“No, Sir... Mr. Stokes, that is not what happened. You see, we worked on it together. All of it. She simply wrote it down because her writing is neater than mine. We always do like this. You can ask Molly.”

“No, Mr. Watson.” Mr. Stokes' voice is stern and he puts the project away again. “Miss Hooper's testimony is not trustworthy in this situation.”

He stands up and John can see the comfortable chair in which the man was sitting until he forces himself to follow Mr. Stokes with his gaze. The teacher walks up to the window behind the desk, where he places his hands on his back and thoughtfully looks out through the glass. “I hope you realise that this is a highly serious matter, Mr. Watson. I have to inform the headmaster, who will inform your parents. There will be investigations regarding your previous grades and you are likely to spend the rest of the term in detention.”

John freezes on the chair. He can vividly see his future shatter into tiny, unrepairable pieces, with scholarship, education and acknowledgement from his family being merely an unattainable dream.

“Sir, it is not-”

“However-” Mr. Stokes turns around and his voice drops, as though he wants what he is about to say to stay between them. “I have a feeling that this is not you, Mr. Watson. Something, or someone, is pushing you, am I right?

Mr. Stokes sighs when John begins to stutter defensively and he walks up to a cupboard with heavy steps.

“I wish to be on your side, Mr. Watson, but you have to let me. I will not inform the headmaster of your slip, but in return I would like you to accept my help. That is the purpose of us teachers. Now, bend over.”

John knows already before he lifts his gaze what Mr. Stokes collected from the cupboard.

Long and thin and what everybody fears but never talks about.

The rattan cane.

It is not uncommon that his team mates hide painful welts under their trousers. If a detention happens to coincide with a game they beg for the cane instead. All for a victory, but John cannot help but question their priorities when Mr. Stokes' fingers play over the wood like they would on a delicate instrument.

“Over the desk, Mr. Watson.”

The teacher's voice enters his head through one ear and leaves as quickly through the other. John is soaring somewhere outside his body, with the deafening sound of his heart bouncing off the walls.

“You have nothing to gain by remaining on that chair.” Mr. Stokes rounds the desk and places a gentle hand on John's shoulder. “Six strokes, that's all. Three on each side and I will avoid the most sensitive parts. I cannot let you leave this room without sending a message, so be a good boy and bend over the desk. Bare bottomed.”

The soft hand squeezes John's shoulder and he slowly stands up. He is nearly surprised that his knees carry him as he fumbles with his belt and manages to get it open. The fabric of his trousers brushes his naked legs as they fall down to his ankles where they cover his shoes and a metallic sound is heard as the belt meets the floor. Hands that are not his own push the white briefs down and a tongue that does not belong to him nervously flicks out.

He feels detached from his own body.

The wood taps against his naked buttocks, just enough to encourage him to take a step forward.

“You want the desk as support and I need your bottom exposed,” Mr. Stokes says quietly. “It is time to bend over, John.”

His ears are ringing when John stumbles forwards. The trousers around his ankles limit his walk, he keeps stepping on the fabric and even the three steps up to the desk are challenging with the humiliation making him dizzy.

John's sensory input appears to have changed. He no longer hears the distant shouts from his team mates on the rugby field, the rustling of leaves outside the window seems unimportant and the murmur of engines, of which one could belong to a red Cadillac, does not reach his ears. Instead he hears his own breathing, loud and rapid, competing with his heart. He feels the wood under his palms and Mr. Stokes' careful hands lift his shirt and jumper up to reveal his backside.

The position feels unnatural and John reluctantly spreads his legs a little wider when the cane gently pats the inside of his thighs. It might be for his own comfort and balance, but John would have preferred to keep his thighs tightly pressed together. His cock hangs flaccid and humiliated, framed by his legs, and he prays to God that the door behind them remains closed.

He flinches when the cane moves from his thigh and up to his bottom, but there is no strength behind the contact with his skin. Mr. Stokes taps the wood against his buttocks, just hard enough for John to be aware of it.

“Getting you warmed up and your blood flowing,” Mr. Stokes explains and delivers a couple of more pats before he withdraws the cane and swooshes it through the air. John can nearly see how the man rolls his wrist, getting himself warmed up for what he is about to do. “You should thank me.”

John cannot find it in himself to do so. His face is pale, his hands sweating. Darkness is ignorance, but John could have sworn that the darkness filling him with horrifying thickness derives from knowledge of the pain he soon will feel.

The dull wall is the last thing John sees before he closes his eyes.

A swoosh as the cane cleaves the air is the only warning before it happens. The rattan hits his left buttock, lashing diagonally over the upper part with a sharp sound. John is back in his own body, brought back by the burning pain steadily spreading as the abused skin throbs. The gasp leaves his lips a moment later, shocked and harsh, and his eyes snap open.

This is a different pain.

It is not dull, like a bruise, nor tight like the injuries he sometimes get from rugby. It is raw, burning and breathtaking. The thin cane slapped his exposed skin with impeccable precision and if Mr. Stokes is treating him gently he does not even want to think about the pain produced on the sensitive areas.

Three times Mr. Stokes lashes his left buttock, just like promised. The second and the third strokes follow the same pattern, also those diagonal and delivered rapidly. John groans and jerks forward, into the desk which welcomes him with a sharp edge in his stomach, but he firmly grits his teeth. The position, the indisputable power imbalance and John's childish underwear around his ankles are humiliating enough without tears.

Mr. Stokes shifts on the floor, moving to John's other side to give him the last three strokes of the punishment, and John bends his left arm and brings it closer to his face. The golden bracelet is so close that he could kiss it and he presses his lips against the cold metal. It reminds him of Sherlock and it gives him strength, although he knows that Sherlock would not be happy with just comforting him in a moment like this. Sherlock would take the cane from Mr. Stokes, pry the teacher's lips apart and shove the piece of wood down the man's throat.

The cane whips against his skin and John yelps, once again jerking forward and into the desk. It makes the pain double, sharp on his backside and dull on his front.

Mr. Stokes does not seem aware as he helps John to angle up again and the cane is brought down for the fifth time. The next stroke lands horizontally over his right buttock and John more or less collapses on the desk when he counts six in his head. He is exhausted and his breathing is heavier than directly after practise.

Mr. Stokes' gentle hand massages his sore skin and John winces.

“You did well, John.” The teacher pats his back and goes to put the cane away. “The punishment is over, you may stand up and get dressed.”

John never wants to stand up again, but the option would be to stay on the teacher's desk with his bottom naked and exposed. He slowly straightens his legs and feels his knees shake the moment before the pain hits him with new strength. Every movement, however small, irritates his glowing skin.

He cannot look Mr. Stokes in the eyes when the man returns to the desk and sits on top of it. He knows that he is blushing, still ashamed, still humiliated.

“How are you, John?”

Mr. Stokes' voice is concerned, but John only shrugs.

“Try to have a cuddle,” he suggests quietly. “With a baby sister or a pet.”

“I don't need a cuddle,” John replies, harsher than he intended. He licks his lips and quickly looks down. He is not turning into Sherlock. “I'm sorry, Sir.”

Mr. Stokes nods and reaches for a piece of paper. He hands it to John once he has scribbled a couple of lines on it and gives John's hand a squeeze.

“This is my address. I want you to visit me as soon as possible. I think it would do you good to have a relaxed conversation about your situation outside this building, these walls add so much tension.”

He chuckles softly when he sees how reluctant John is to accept the note and leans back. “Do not worry, John, I am not suggesting anything inappropriate. A cup of tea, that's all. You need help with those Greasers and I am more than willing to offer it. There has only been a few years since I was in the same situation and nobody gave me a helping hand. I am your friend, not your enemy. Remember that.”

* * *

 

It is foolish to think that he would be able to hide it from Sherlock, but to John's surprise the Greaser appears to have more urgent matters on his mind when they meet at the Cadillac. Sherlock's face looks like a thundercloud, ready to burst. He towers up to his full height, hovering over John like a black eagle, and John suddenly remembers why he used to find the Greaser so frightening.

“You didn't show up at rugby practise today, John. I was waiting for you outside the locker room.”

John looks down. He is too tired to deal with Sherlock's accusatory tone and attempts to intimidate him into getting what he wants.

“John. I am waiting for an apology and an explanation, because this is not how I want you to behave.”

John's jaw tenses gradually until his teeth are gritted behind clenched lips.

“All right,” he mutters and annoyed pushes Sherlock's hand away when the Greaser tries to force his head up. “Then why don't you pull down my trousers and spank me right here? I can bend over the car, if that would make things easier for you.”

He lifts his gaze and meets Sherlock's eyes, openly showing how tired but determined he is. He will walk home, with welts and pain, unless Sherlock drops the attitude.

Sherlock raises his eyebrows and blinks down at John, before his eyes darken.

“Get inside the car,” he mutters, already reaching for the key. “We need to get you out of those clothes. You are obviously in pain.”

Sherlock neither reveals his deduction nor waits for John to confirm the unspoken. It is not necessary, the more time they spend together the more convinced John becomes that the Greaser actually is a genius.

Sherlock takes his hand when they leave town and John's bottom suddenly hurts a little less, but he is still the first of them to leave the car and stand up when they stop in front of a big house. It stretches up above them, like a castle from his dreams, with countless windows and impressive towers. It is the typical example of the property of a family of old money.

A man in uniform comes towards them with hurried steps and he bows softly in front of Sherlock when he receives the key to the Cadillac and makes himself ready to park the car. John stares, eyes wide and lips parted. The golden chain was on the brink to too much, but this time Sherlock is clearly crossing the line of what is acceptable.

“Sherlock, I'm not dying. You could have taken me home, I don't want to be at some... royal hospital where someone like me does not belong.”

“What are you talking about?” Sherlock frowns as he walks up to John and places a hand on the low of his back to guide him inside. “This is where I live. Come on, let me show you my room.”

* * *

 

The house is as remarkable on the inside, with flights of stairs, soft carpets and old paintings in gold frames, some which John could have sworn have Sherlock's nose or Sherlock's eyes. He finds the house more frightening than the scene in the warehouse, it disconcerts his image of the Greaser and reinforces the fake Sherlock who visited his mother. The fake Sherlock who turned out to be the real.

Sherlock's room is big, three times the size of John's bedroom, with tall, bright windows and a huge bed drowning in pillows. The sight makes John sigh.

“What?” Sherlock immediately turns to him, gnawing his lower lip. “Don't you like it? I had some of these things bought especially for you. If you don't like it, we can change it.”

Sherlock turns around to pick up some of the pillows, but John stops him with a hand on his arm.

“It is perfect, Sherlock. I just wish you would have told me the truth. It is a bit hurtful to know that you deemed my mother trustworthy enough, but not me.”

John can nearly see the cogwheels spin in Sherlock's head as he tries to understand the reference, and then the Greaser chuckles.

“John,” he says and takes John's head between his hands. “I have never lied to you. What your mother saw was merely an act, designed to make her like me. This is the real me, rude, annoying Greaser with a big ego and a rich family whose money is very useful when it comes to buying my Golden Boy golden gifts.”

Sherlock pecks his lips and turns around, putting an effective end to the discussion as he disappears behind a door. “Take off your trousers and lay down on the bed, John. On your belly.”

John slowly does as he is told, but only once he carefully has folded his trousers over a chair. He is scared of defiling the room just by breathing the air in it. The bed is soft and much more comfortable than Mr. Stokes' desk, but he still feels exposed and vulnerable with his backside only covered in the briefs, white and innocent against the deep red duvet covers.

The bed dips from Sherlock's weight when the Greaser joins him and a big hand strokes over John's thigh. The sensation makes him shiver as the soft fingers spread the pleasure over his skin, just like the cane earlier spread the heat.

“I have soothing salve here, John.” Sherlock leans down to murmur in John's ear and his fingers travel up, following an invisible path over John's thigh up to his underwear. “It will make you feel better, I promise.”

It takes John a moment to realise that Sherlock is waiting for permission. The Greaser's fingers rest on the elastic, ready to pull the pants down. John nods slowly and Sherlock shifts on the bed, placing one knee on each side of John's thighs, and the long digits slowly, inch by inch, expose John's abused backside.

The thought of Sherlock seeing him naked has not fully left his mind since the Greaser mentioned it under their tree. It is a forbidden thought, even more so what it could lead to, but John has pictured it as something beautiful. Face to face, lips joined and Sherlock undressing him with comforting hands, not John lying with his face pressed into a pillow so soft that his head sinks through it with his pink bottom glowing in the room. Sherlock pauses, his hands resting on John's upper thighs with the briefs pulled down just enough to uncover what was hidden underneath, and John sighs.

“I'm sorry to disappoint you,” he whispers and buries his arms under the pillow. “Few strokes, but he hit hard. There must be marks.”

It takes Sherlock a moment to reply, and when he does his voice sounds distant.

“Marks, yes... Yes, of course. Hush now and I will make it all better.”

There is a click as a tube is opened and John inhales sharply when Sherlock begins to apply the salve with gentle hands. Each contact with the swollen weals burns like acid on his skin before the pain slowly fades and is replaced with a wonderful, cooling effect. John's tense muscles relax and he sighs softly as he melts on the duvet, earning himself a low chuckle from Sherlock.

“There you go,” the Greaser murmurs and John can hear the tube of salve land on the bedside table before the big hands return to his buttocks, cupping them with two thumbs slowly caressing the sensitive skin where backside meets thigh. “Much better.”

John sighs again, a sound of agreement. The salve numbs the pain enough for him to take his mind off it with the new sensation tickling his skin.

The bed moves slightly when Sherlock leans forward and presses his lips against the low of John's back, breathing heavier than usual when his lips part and his tongue gently laps John's skin.

“The things you do to me, John,” Sherlock breathes. “Everything about you is simply too much. I can hardly contain myself.”

Sherlock's lips travel north, following the shape of his spine until John's jumper stops their journey and Sherlock looms over him. John can nearly feel the great shadow fall over him, eliminating the last ray of light as Sherlock's teeth scrape his earlobe and the Greaser's jeans-covered knee forces John's thighs apart.

Sherlock's knee presses against John's crotch, gently but firmly, and a small nudge makes John gasp, causing him to inhale the deep, masculine scent left by Sherlock in the pillow until it numbs his mind like a drug. Sherlock moves his knee again and John's hips do an involuntary jerk.

“Never done this before, have you?” Sherlock purrs and John shakes his head, feeling the pillow brush against his cheeks and nose.

It does not matter which part Sherlock is asking about, John can honestly and without hesitation give him a negative response. No one has touched him where Sherlock's knee is grinding him, no one has kissed his temple, ear and neck like Sherlock is doing and he has never been naked from the waist and down in anybody else's, boy's or girl's, bedroom. He has never been filled with the need and pleasure Sherlock fills him with, not even by his own hand.

If touching himself is a sin it is nothing compared to their current activity. John soon arches his back with a soft moan as his body demands more. More contact, more pleasure. More Sherlock. It abandons years and years of following the right path when one of the Greaser's hands settles in his hair.

“I need you to turn around.”

The jeans are rough against his sore skin when Sherlock guides him down on his lap, but the pain drowns in the ocean of feelings all overwhelming John simultaneously. Sherlock's arm forms a backrest and his shoulder a support for John's head even though John cannot relax enough to keep it there when Sherlock's hand slowly travels up his naked thigh. It brushes his skin, gently and affectionately, but when John looks up at Sherlock with bated breath he sees hungry possessiveness, not affection, in the Greaser's eyes.

Sherlock's fingers continue to roam his skin, nails scarping gently and fingertips drawing small circles, whilst John's jaw slowly is drawn towards the floor and his lips part to let out a soft sigh.

It is Biology and it is Chemistry, his body's reaction to Sherlock's attention, an yet John cannot explain what is happening to him. He does not even want to explain. To feel is enough, to blink up at Sherlock's sharp jawline and high cheekbones and spread his legs when the Greaser's fingers encourage him to do so.

Sherlock touches his inner thighs until John's smaller body begins to tremble. The word Sin has disappeared from his vocabulary and left is only lust and desperation. The long fingers wander up and down, from knee and towards his crotch, but Sherlock keeps him breathlessly waiting as he delivers false hope after false hope, always swerving before he reaches John's expectant and swollen member.

It it worse than waiting for exam results. Fear mixed with excitement.

John cannot hold back the broken moan when Sherlock's digits finally wrap themselves around his cock. It is not particularly big even erected, still growing like the rest of him, and the Greaser can easily get a good hold with his long, bony fingers.

John knows the moment Sherlock starts moving his hand, tugging his skin and revealing the swollen head, that he will not last long. A drop of pre-cum trickles out and Sherlock smirks.

“Feeling good, are you?”

John can only nod, out of breath and amazed by the feeling Sherlock gives him. It is better than good grades. It is better than rugby, television and books.

It is Sherlock, so pure and perfect that it never could have been anyone else.

“Relax, John. Allow yourself to feel.”

John whimpers in response and Sherlock brushes his thumb over the slit, playing with the persistent drop of pre-cum. The sensation is so strong that John gasps and his back arches, pushing his hips up and into Sherlock's hand. The Greaser catches John's moaning lips and draws the last ounce of air from him with a deep kiss.

Sherlock's arm pins him down with protective strength when the trembling intensifies. John cannot sit still, his stomach squirms and his legs jerk uncontrollably as Sherlock's hand sends wave after wave of pleasure through his body.

His lungs try but fail to deliver enough oxygen to his racing heart, forcing him to breathe faster and heavier for every second until he is a panting mess on Sherlock's shoulder.

“I want you to come for me, my Golden Boy,” Sherlock breathes against his skin. “I want you to stain that jumper of yours. Come for me, give me your first orgasm.”

John's body tenses and his head snaps back with a groan. His teeth alter between gritted and chattering when stars explode before his eyes, blinding and beautiful, and he presses himself tightly to Sherlock when he cannot take the overwhelming feeling any more. The explosion is expected, and yet it surprises him. John whimpers and moans, sobs and squirms, as pleasure wants to lift him from Sherlock's lap and the only thing tying him to Earth are the Greaser's steady hands.

He spills on Sherlock's fingers, on his own naked thighs and on his jumper.

The Greaser's hand carries him through the climax, his firm lips soothing him. Sherlock lets him ride on the last waves of pleasure and then carefully places him on the bed where he helps him out of the dirty clothes until John is naked and exposed.

“That was an orgasm,” Sherlock murmurs and brushes a hand through John's hair. “You will have an even stronger one when I finally penetrate you. I hope you enjoyed it.”

A shudder runs through John's tired body and he nods. He might be wearing rose-tinted glasses, but Sherlock has never looked more handsome with the curls pulled down by gravity and his eyes black and dilated.

“I did,” he promises in a weak whisper. “It was... It was amazing.”

He smiles softly and lifts a numb arm to touch Sherlock's face. Sherlock gives it a small squeeze and John looks with amazement and a little disgust as the Greaser proceeds to lick his own hand clean from cum. He gives John's thighs the same treatment, licking them with a pink tongue that tickles John's skin, and once they both are clean Sherlock tucks them in under the soft and fluffy duvet.

“I don't want you to be alone with that teacher again.”

“Huh?” John is too comfortable with Sherlock's arms around him to look up when Sherlock speaks.

“You heard me.”

“He is my teacher,” John says with a sigh and kisses Sherlock's collarbone. “He only wants to help.”  

“I don't trust him.” Sherlock sounds like a stubborn child and John sighs again.

“Well, he doesn't trust you either. He seems to think that you are some sort of a threat to me.”

He chuckles quietly and cuddles up closer to the warm body, but Sherlock clicks his tongue disapprovingly. 

“Exactly,” he says seriously. “I don't want him to take you away from me. Get ideas into your head.”

John forces himself to look up and meets Sherlock's eyes.

“He won't,” he promises. “You are my boyfriend, silly. As long as Mr. Stokes doesn't find out that we are dating, he has no reason to punish me for simply spending time with you. Today was a misunderstanding.” He can see how reluctant Sherlock is to accept the comfort and John leans up to peck his lips. “Promise.”

Sherlock looks down at him and eventually he sighs.

“I am afraid that I have drawn you into something bad, my Golden Boy.”

Their eyes meet for a second before Sherlock guides John's head down and pulls him closer, and John has a feeling that Sherlock was not talking about the sin of the jeans-covered knee pressed between his two naked thighs.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quotes:  
> "There is no darkness but ignorance." - _Twelfth Night_ , William Shakespeare


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock's possessiveness is taken to the extremes already the next day. Perhaps it is the fact that John ends up spending the night, sleeping peacefully in the Greaser's arms without a single thought of the scolding he will receive once he returns home, or maybe it is the way he wakes up with a gasp and rubs his aching backside. Regardless of the final trigger, John's heart sinks in his chest when realises that Sherlock was serious the previous night.

He does not trust Mr. Stokes.

John has no idea how he does it, but it leaves him thinking that there is nothing Sherlock is not capable of. There is a new student joining his Chemistry class, a tall and grumpy Greaser who should have taken the course two years ago. He towers above the rest of the students like the Eiffel tower in Paris and looks ready to pluck their eyes out with the pen spinning between his fingers if somebody would be foolish enough to make a comment. Sherlock could have given him Greg, whose company John has come to enjoy more and more, but it is not the Greaser with the sympathetic eyes. Molly is forced to leave her seat for Sebastian, and John, almost as terrified as his classmates, can only give her a helpless look.

John never expected to make friends with a Greaser, but his and Sebastian's acquaintance could not have had a worse start. Sebastian never greets him in the hallways like Greg does. Instead, John feels Sebastian glare at him whenever they meet and one does not have to be Sherlock Holmes to understand that the Greaser hates him.

Mr. Stokes calls Sebastian's name, looks from the Greaser to John and back again, and continues the lesson without asking why his list suddenly holds a new name. The leather jacket is back over John's shoulders, hanging over the jumper that Sherlock somehow managed to have washed during the night in order to remove the stain of sin, and it makes John look like a smaller reflection of Sebastian with his blond hair and tanned skin.

He could might as well have been wearing a collar around his neck with a tag reading  _Property of Sherlock Holmes_.

John is so relieved when the bell announces the end of the day that he is one of the first to leave his seat and collect his books. Friday afternoon, no rugby and no plans with Sherlock. After the strenuous week he has never been more eager to go home, have a cup of tea and open his books under the soft and familiar light of his desk lamp. Sherlock's presence fills his head with the wrong knowledge, improper knowledge that will be of little help during his exams.

What Sherlock teaches him is more of a distraction.

He is just about to step over the threshold and into the weekend of freedom and ordinary, highly sinless plans when a voice, raised above the noise of moving feet and excited students, reaches him.

“Mr. Watson. A word, please.”

John stops short, momentarily blocking the doorway until impatient hands push him out of the way and his classmates flood outside. The fabric of his underwear irritates his sore skin when he slowly turns around, a reminder that Mr. Stokes currently is as far away from being his favourite teacher as it is possible to be. The punishment, he realised ten minutes into his biology lesson that morning, was more than six painful reminders on his backside. It is seven hours of suffering through class on hard, uncomfortable wooden chairs and he suddenly sees himself attempting to study positioned on his stomach on the bed instead of at his desk.

“Sir?”

He stops in front of the teacher's desk and waits for Mr. Stokes to close his bag and look up, and when he does it is with a sad smile on his face.

“It would seem as though our little talk yesterday had an unwanted side effect, Mr. Watson.”

Whereas John would call the soreness that makes every step a mild punishment unwanted, Mr. Stokes' gaze lands on the leather jacket and John shrugs.

“It keeps me warm.”

“So does your own jacket.”

Mr. Stokes rounds the desk and once again sits on top of it, looking at John with concerned eyes.

“I know their lot, John. They are possessive. You might see it as beneficial to have their protection against bullies but, and trust me when I tell you this, once you start to misbeha-”

The low voice dies out as Mr. Stokes' attention is fixed on something behind John's back and he stands from the desk.

“You, new guy. I asked for a moment alone with Mr. Watson here. You are dismissed, now run along.”

John turns around to see Sebastian, lingering behind the rows of desks with eyes ever narrowing. Mr. Stokes, whose neck is thin enough for Sebastian to crush with a single, gigantic hand, does not falter, but John feels the threat like a cold palm on chest.

“You should probably leave, Sebastian,” he says nervously.

It is the first time since the incident at the warehouse he speaks directly to the Greaser and he nearly flinches when the teenager turns to look at him.

“I was told to take you home, Watson.”

John sighs. “Can you wait outside? Please.”

“Mr. Watson will join you shortly,” Mr. Stokes adds. “Now, Sebastian, if you will be so kind.”

The teacher points at the door and turns to John with a heavy sigh once Sebastian reluctantly, and with a grumpy pout, leaves the room with his hands deep down his pockets.

“See what I mean? Possessive.”

John shrugs and looks down. “I'm fine, Sir.”

“I'm serious, John.” Also Mr. Stokes' voice speaks of how serious the man is and John reluctantly looks up. “You might not see it yourself, but this cannot possibly end well. There is a power imbalance, and an obvious one. Those Greasers will end up hurting you and I am worried it will be physically.”

“Sherlock would never hurt me,” John says, but he cannot put any real conviction behind his words. It is easy to ignore the rough touches next to the gentler ones, but the memories of strong fingers gripping his jaw and cold eyes meeting his are still there, somewhere deep, buried in the back of his mind. “He knows what he wants, that's all.”

Mr. Stokes gives him a stern look.

“Once you are in too deep it is hard to withdraw They know things about you. Call it playing or call it blackmailing, one thing is for sure. You will not be the one laughing.”

A cold shiver runs down John's spine. Mr. Stokes cannot, even in his wildest dreams, imagine the things Sherlock has got on him.

“I'm fine, Sir,” he repeats weakly, and Mr. Stokes sighs.

“And there seems to be little I can do to convince you otherwise. As I told you yesterday,” the teacher takes a step closer and places a, what could have been protective, hand on John's shoulder. “I am here to help. You have my address. As for what this Sherlock wants,” the hand is lifted off his shoulder and Mr. Stokes reaches for his briefcase. “You are a good boy, John. I can tell. Do not let him drag you into any mischief.”

* * *

 

Sebastian is waiting for him outside the door, leaning against the wall with a grumpy pout that would have been cute on a child but looks directly fatal on a tall and strong teenager. John cannot remember misbehaving, but he cannot help but think that Sherlock gave him Sebastian as a horrifying punishment. Unless, of course, the Greaser is sent to him as a bodyguard with the purpose of intimidating Mr. Stokes. Regardless of Sherlock's true intentions, John disagrees.

Instead of telling him to step into a car, Sebastian gives him a helmet. He is one of the original members of B Street Bikers, one of those who everyday risk their lives on a bike. John licks his lips when he sees it. A BSA D1 Bantam, or as his father calls it, a motor-driven death-machine which takes corners too sharply and follow their own traffic rules of insanity.

“Sebastian, I'm-”

“Put the bloody helmet on, punk.” Sebastian is already straddling the bike, not wearing a helmet. “Holmes don't want ya head all smashed in.”

“Doesn't,” John corrects him weakly and pushes the helmet down on his head. It fits surprisingly well with a strap under his chin and with a soft, blue colour protecting his scalp. Sebastian conjures two pairs of aviator goggles from inside his jacket and hands a pair to John with a mutter about 'fly-things'.

John is grateful for Mr. Stokes' decision to keep him after class when it is time to mount the bike. To John it is like climbing a mountain. When he finally is seated behind Sebastian, falling down feels like such a realistic threat that he immediately locks his arms around the Greaser's chest and prays to God that he will not end his days on a beast of metal. Sebastian kicks the vehicle to life and John suddenly feels like the milkshake machine at Red's Ice Cream. Everything shakes. His body, his teeth, the school, the man watching them.

The man's hand as he beckons John closer.

Giving him Sebastian might not have been such a bad idea after all.

John lifts his hand, just enough to pat the Greaser's shoulder and attract his attention.

“What now?” Sebastian turns the engine off and his voice replaces rumble of the machine with surprisingly similarity. “Forgot your beads?”

He turns his head to look at what John so eagerly points at and groans.

“Fucking perfect. If it ain't Mr. M?” Sebastian's elbow gives John a push resulting in that he nearly does fall off the bike. “Just go. Some of us are bored of playing Holmes' stupid games.”

Ready to volunteer to said group, John slides down from the bike on shaky legs and pushes the glasses up on his helmet. He enjoyed sleeping in Sherlock's arms, far more than any boy should, but all the complications around the Greaser are getting on his nerves. Not to mention that men in suits telling him to stay away from Sherlock make him nervous.

“John Watson.” The man nods at him when John stops, but the cold eyes look anything but friendly as they critically scan the helmet. “It pleases me to meet you out in the open, that warehouse is enough to make anyone look grey, don't you think?”

John shrugs. The man's suit looks just as strict in the sunlight.

“Sherlock is not here,” he informs the man. “I have not seen him since he dropped me off this morning.”

A small shock of pain shoots through John's body as he says that. After the evening they shared together, after Sherlock's hand drew pleasure from him like no one had done before, he had expected more than a goodbye kiss in Sherlock's car. He even caught himself missing their lunch under the oak.

“I am not here to see Sherlock. As I told you last time we met, he is avoiding me. As I also told you last time, I have found his pressure point.” The man smiles, a smile that belongs in a horror film at the drive-in theatre and not on a school yard. “And, as I am sure you understand, with Sherlock's pressure point I do not need Sherlock himself.”

The man turns around and waves with his hand to make John follow him. Away from Sebastian and into the shadows.

“I don't understand,” John says as he reluctantly follows. “Even if I were Sherlock's pressure point, what would you do? Kidnap me until he stops avoiding you?”

It is meant as a joke, to lighten the mood, but neither John nor the man laughs.

“I would rather not kidnap you at this point,” the man says seriously and turns around. “In fact, I would rather the police is not informed.”

There is something intimidating about an empty school. The otherwise busy corridors are silent and empty and the only light shining behind the windows comes from the teachers' offices. John tries to be brave, but he would prefer to step back into the sun where Sebastian can see them. Where the Greaser can see and also come to his help.

“Last time we met you said I was happily unaware,” John remembers and takes a few steps back. Just in case the man would find a bag or a rope inside his suit jacket. “Apparently I am happily unaware of what is to come.”

The man smiles humorlessly, but ignores John as he continue to talk himself.

“Sherlock Holmes has, during the last few months, developed what we could call a bad habit. A habit that makes him slow and generally uninterested in the world around him. Boring, if you will.” He makes a pause, as if considering his next words carefully, before his voice drop and he continues with a sentence that makes John shudder. “From what I have observed, the two of you appear to be... close. I need you to find out who he meets and where I can find this person. Hand me his dealer.”

“His what?” John, still shocked by the man's decision to describe him and Sherlock as close, frowns.

“His dealer, John,” the man repeats. “Sherlock Holmes has developed a cocaine addiction. Not unexpected, however, I preferred it when he turned to me for distraction rather than the needle.”

“Listen,” John licks his lips and looks down to gather courage. “I don't know you. I hardly know Sherlock, we have only been spending time together for a few weeks, if even that. I am not going to spy on him.”

Pleased with himself, John looks up. He may be upset with Sherlock for sending him a bodyguard and forcing him to ride on the back of a motorcycle, but he is still loyal. Sherlock is still his boyfriend and he is still wearing the golden bracelet around his wrist.

The man, on the other hand, does not look pleased.

“Very well,” he says, and reaches for something inside his suit jacket. “I gave you a fair chance, Johnny.”

Fearing a weapon John backs away, but it is not a gun or a knife appearing in the man's hand. It is a photograph, small but all too familiar and much worse than a weapon.

Sherlock, leaning over John, their lips firmly pressed together and a big arm over John's small shoulders.

The photo booth.

John's hand is trembling when he takes the photograph and stares down at it. Although Sherlock's curls cover parts of his face there is no denying it. Two boys, two teenagers of the same gender, kissing, and one of them is John.

“Where did you get this?”

His voice is as steady as his hand and he looks up at the man with fear in his eyes. God knows, God knows everything, but in his hand he is holding the evidence that will have him judged also by the living. He feels numb when the man takes the photograph from his weak fingers and puts it back where John cannot reach it.

“Where did you get it?” John repeats, and the man smiles.

“Oh, Johnny. Can you see how this is going to happen? You refused to give me the information I want, but luckily, for me at least, I happen to know also your pressure point. Tell me who his dealer is, or this highly inappropriate photograph will be seen by more eyes than mine.”

* * *

 

John is so shattered that he mounts the motorcycle and clings to Sebastian without fearing for his life. His mind is already far away, in a future where he sees the world through bars. It is not a bright prospect and John's stomach cringes. His grip around Sebastian's waist tightens and when they stop an annoyed Greaser has to pat his hand to attract his attention.

“We're here. At ya keepers' place.”

John lifts his head and blinks a couple of times. His home looks the same as ever, but he does not feel the same. He prefers the dark back of Sebastian's leather jacket where no one can see what a criminal and sinner he has become.

His legs are shaking so much that they feel detached from his body when he lands numbly on the unresponsive asphalt. He grabs his bag, presses it closely to his side, and takes a swaying step away from the bike.

“Thank you for taking me home.” His voice is pressed through a narrow tube and comes out distant and dead as he fumbles with the helmet and the glasses, only to press also those closely to his body when Sebastian shakes his head.

“Keep those, kiddo. They're from Holmes. He says the helmet didn't come in gold, so blue had to do.” 

Sebastian shrugs and makes himself ready to leave. John, blushing as he understands what Sebastian does not, takes another step back. The engine comes to life with a roar and John's moment of happiness ends, fear once again enters his body and Sherlock's gifts become a burden.

“Sebastian.”

John does not let himself realise that he is playing with fire as he grips the Greaser's arm and quickly continues.

“Wait, please. There is something I need to ask you.”

Their eyes meet and they lower them together, both looking down at John's fingers and how they are too short to reach around Sebastian's arm.

John lets go as though he had burnt himself and looks up at Sebastian with pleading eyes. “Please?”

He can almost hear the Greaser sigh over the noise from the motorcycle before Sebastian turns it off. “Well?”

John clears his throat. It is not until Sebastian turns to him with hair ruffled by the wind and he takes the goggles off with one sweeping movement that John realises that his decision to turn to Sebastian for help was impulsive, and very much so.

It could have been Greg.

“I need to ask something,” he repeats dumbly and nervously shifts his weight onto his other foot. “It is about... Well. You see, I'm wondering if you know where Sherlock gets his...” Sebastian raises an annoyed eyebrow and John finishes weakly. “His drugs.”

Whatever Sebastian was expecting, it is obvious from his reaction that it was anything but that. The Greaser freezes and, just like outside the warehouse, John sees the briefest moment of fear cross the teenagers face before it scrunches up in anger.

“Drugs ain't nothing for a square like you. Your lil' body couldn't handle it.”

“I'm just-”

“Are ya slow?” Sebastian cuts him off and yanks him closer by his collar. “Stay away from that shit. There are two ways for people to control ya, do ya hear that? Love and drugs. Don't let Holmes or anyone else get that kind of power over ya.”

“I'm just asking for a name,” John says weakly, and when he looks up at Sebastian he is not the only one trying to catch his breath. “I don't want to try it. Please, Sebastian. I really need a name.”

Sebastian glares at him, daring him to repeat the question. His eyes are dilated, his cheeks flushed from the ride, and with his hair no longer slicked to his scalp he looks more dangerous than ever.

“Trevor.” Sebastian says the name slowly, almost tentatively, and his grip around John's collar eases. “Victor Trevor. I know nothing 'bout him. Tried to sell to me once, but I get my stash from someone else.”

His gaze flickers over John's face before it zooms out and Sebastian's features, apart from the the concerned wrinkle between his eyebrows, smooths out. He does not seem to notice when John carefully wriggles out of his grip and nervously licks his lips, not sure what to do next.

“Do you regret it?” he asks eventually. “Do you regret trying those drugs?”

Sebastian shrugs and looks down at him.

“I regret a lot of things.”

What he regrets remains unsaid as Sebastian leaves a moment later, disappearing around the corner with an angry roar from the Bantam. What stays with John longer than the sight of the Greaser is the feeling of exhaustion. He feels like one of the washing machine's at Glenn's Self-Service Laundry, which spins and spins with its content centrifuged towards the edges. As if he will become the first known case of an exploded head due to an overload of thoughts.

As if enjoying another man's touch is not enough to bear.

Association with Sherlock Holmes is dangerous. 


	9. Chapter 9

John is thoroughly scolded for the night's pleasure. His mother sends him to his room with a plate of sandwiches and a throbbing ear as he can do little but shrug when she demands to know why he never returned home the previous afternoon. Sherlock's leather jacket is an unfortunate clue and, although Mrs. Watson's fears are far from the truth, they are bad enough.

John almost wants to send Mr. Stokes a bouquet of flowers for not sharing the incident with his Chemistry project.

He has never been grounded before. The walls of his bedroom feel pressing already after ten minutes of imprisonment and he knows, clearer than ever, that the photograph of Sherlock and him kissing never must reach the eyes of authority. Sherlock might have convinced him that it is possible to wear both a golden cross and a golden bracelet, but a pair of handcuffs would be a mismatch.

To spare his sore backside he positions himself on the bed, lying flat on his stomach with his neck in an uncomfortable angle and with his glasses continuously sliding down the bridge of his nose. Studying does not bring him the satisfaction he hoped for. X solves for 10 instead of 13, the chemical reactions remain unbalanced and the bracelet around his wrist turns into a distraction. Sherlock is once again on his mind.

The Greaser constantly occupies a part of his head, it shrinks and expands, but he cannot rid himself of it. He does not want to rid himself of it.

It should not come as a surprise when the sharp sound of pebbles rains against the window. The sun is about to set on a blushing sky and a soft light, for which couples sharing a romantic evening must be grateful, illuminates parts of Sherlock's hair like a curly halo. John's stomach turns at the sight, partly excited and partly worried. He can hear muffled sounds from the floor below, the noise from a distant radio, footsteps and an occasional exchange of words. His parents are still awake, still moving around the house, and all it would take is a single glance out the window to see the Greaser standing like weed in their beautiful garden. He doubts his parents would recognise the beauty in Sherlock's perfect jawline and sharp cheekbones.

The window creeks as he pushes it open and John flinches. The sound is innocent, a fresh breeze of spring is needed after hours of studying, but his conscience is not clean.

“What are you doing?” He squints down at Sherlock and at the same time listens for approaching footsteps. “My parents will see you, you can't be here.”

“I came to see my Golden Boy,” Sherlock replies and puts out a cigarette against the sole of his shoe. A moment later he finds the packet in his pocket and uses it as a container for the butt. “See? I'm not leaving any evidence, they will never know I was here. Now step away from the window, I'm coming in.”

Sherlock is already making his way up the façade, a bat who has to watch his every step lest fall down and break his neck, and John hurriedly pins the back of his chair under the bedroom handle. Once he turns around Sherlock is there, seemingly not bothered by the vertical climb, runs slender fingers through his already slicked hair, and pulls John closer.

As always, John's breath hitches.

As always, Sherlock notices.

The Greaser's lips quirk up in a brief but smug grin the moment before their breathing space ceases to exist. Sherlock's hands sweep down his back, over the soft jumper and soon the shirt underneath, with the faintest tremor of greed.

“Sherlock...”

John moans softly when a pair of lips is pressed to his neck and hot, humid breath spreads over the delicate skin, but it is also when he places a hand on the teenager's chest in order to separate their bodies. “What are you doing?”

Sherlock grunts disapprovingly and with a grind of hips against abdomen reveals a prominent erection.

“Sherlock...”

John repeats the name, his voice as weak as his knees. Sherlock's hands are keeping him standing, and also keeping him too close. Sherlock's eyes are too dilated, an endless sea of darkness, hungry and demanding.

The muffled sounds from downstairs speak of a different reality, where boys cannot kiss boys. Where John belongs in hell for the bulge pressing into his stomach. He whimpers, a pathetic noise of exhaustion and despair. Sherlock is slowly, inch by inch, driving him mad.

Perhaps he is in too deep already.

“Sherlock, I have to study...”

“Shhh.” Sherlock silences him with another kiss, tying his tongue and stealing his breath. “You have not taken a break from your studies since this morning. It is about time your bed is used for its real purpose.”

John licks his lips and shivers when he accidentally brush the tip over Sherlock's lips as well.

“Sleeping?” He cannot find it in himself to believe his own innocence, not with Sherlock's hands disappearing into his back pockets.

“Certainly, but not yet.” Sherlock mouths the words over John's neck and takes a firmer grip around the lower part of his backside. “Not yet...”

The hold hurts, the welts sting and John squirms.

“The bed is for sleeping,” he insists quietly. “Just sleeping.”

“And studying, apparently.” Sherlock pulls back enough to move his gaze over the organised mess of papers, books and pens displayed on John's duvet. “Boring.”

Sherlock spins them around, and next thing John knows is the sharp edge of the wooden desk pressing into the low of his back. The temperature in the room seems to rise and rise beyond measure despite the open window, John's ears burn and he is struggling for oxygenated air when Sherlock ruts against him, pressing him harder into the desk until he feels a thin but long bruise form across his back.

One across his back, one across his stomach. Sherlock and Mr. Stokes. Two sides of the same coin.

“You will have me imprisoned.”

John can neither reciprocate nor push Sherlock away with his arms hanging numbly along his sides, all while the Greaser continues to ravenously kiss his neck and replies with a mutter. “I'll send you a rasp.”

“I don't think that would help.”

John's mouth keeps talking although his brain since long has given up. He hears himself from a distance, muffled by Sherlock's groans and what he soon realises is his own panting. Small beads of sweat have erupted in his hairline, glistering but fading when light catches Sherlock's eyes.

“I would never let you go to prison, John.”

The deep voice, although rougher than usual, is genuine and it catches John off guard. He stares at Sherlock, with the warmth his chest reaching and surpassing the heat between them, and he does not struggle when their lips seal in another sloppy kiss.

The Greaser's name is once again leaving his tongue, a prayer and a desperate plea, calling out for help when his tingling stomach feels about ready to leave his body. Without hesitation Sherlock is there to hold him together, big hands on his flushed cheeks, fingers caressing his temples and rubbing circles over his scalp.

“I haven't been able to stop thinking about you today,” Sherlock mutters and leans their foreheads together. “My irresistible Golden Boy...”

The smell of cigarette smoke stings in his nostrils and John looks down. He is more comfortable like that despite his racing heart and wet, shiny lips. With his head tucked in under Sherlock's chin, enjoying the feeling of protection without breaking too many laws.

He never meant to become a criminal.

Sherlock's hands draw a shiver from him as they move down his sides and over his hips. Whereas they could rest there comfortably they do not, but continue along the leather of John's belt. How Sherlock manages to get it open with their bodies merged into one is a mystery and what happens next, however a natural proceeding action, makes John grab Sherlock's shirt.

Sherlock faces no difficulty in getting the button open and he pushes John's trousers, along with his underwear, down to his ankles. John shivers, suddenly experiencing the breeze from the window as chilly, and he looks up at Sherlock with wide eyes.

“The sounds you made yesterday...” Sherlock's hot breath is back on his neck, kissing his jawline and drawing a broken sigh from John's lips. “Those sweet moans are enough to drive a man mad.”

Sherlock's hand finds his cock and a smug grin appears on the Greaser's lips. John is hard, not as hard as Sherlock, but hard enough. The ultimate proof of his body's reluctant interest, something which he cannot control.

As if Sherlock's only intention were to make them both aware of John's sinful reaction to the scene he withdraws his hand a moment later, brushes his gentle fingertips along the skin of John's hips, and cups his buttocks.

“You are very responsive.” The deep voice is muttering in his ear as sharp but gentle teeth nibble on his earlobe. He should feel disgusted, push Sherlock away, but the feeling is breathtaking. His rear still stings under the contact with Sherlock's heavy palms, the stimulation of his earlobe makes his head spin and a firmer touch of jeans against his naked prick is what finally draws the first moan from him as Sherlock rolls his hips.

Sherlock overwhelms his senses and John can do little but let himself drown in the sensation.

He lifts his gaze to find comfort but is nearly relieved when Sherlock spins him around and he can look at something other than Sherlock's face. It is as beautiful as ever, shadows falling perfectly over his features. What make John feel at unease are the Greaser's eyes. Whereas they normally shift in colour, blue one day and green the next, there is nothing of Sherlock's colourful irises to be seen behind the black frontier. The pupils are abnormally big and give John the feeling of drowning for real, disappearing in the darkness in a far less poetic manner.

“Stay.”

John lifts is head at the command, much like the dog Sherlock, intentionally or unintentionally, turns him into. His position, standing in front of a desk with his lower body naked and exposed, feels alarmingly similar to the incident in Mr. Stokes' office. However illogical, a part of John expects the rattan cane.

A moment later the sound of Sherlock's shoes moving over the floorboards ceases and John can only assume that he found what he was looking for. He hears a click followed by a rushing noise, a moment of scraping and, when the needle finds the track, music. Johnny Cash fills his bedroom.

Just loud enough to block the sounds from downstairs it also envelops them in a sphere of privacy, a sphere which is needed once Sherlock returns to him. Whereas John normally would see a faint reflection of the Greaser in the window the empty frame offers nothing but a view of Mr. Davis' house. He waits, nervously, with his fingertips hugging the edge of the desk. Second after second passes, with nothing happening apart from the rising of hair on John's neck, until Sherlock ghosts his fingers along the line of sensitive skin where John's bottom meets thigh. The sensation is enough to make his heart leap if possible farther up his throat and his buttocks contract automatically with a wave of dull pain as muscles apply pressure to the welts. Sherlock does not let it fade before he angles his wrists and once again cups the backside with palms on his cheek and fingers still in the imaginary line underneath. He kneads the flesh, massages it gently at first to soon continue with a firmer treatment. Under the layer of stinging pain lies excitement, openly shown when a gasp breaks through the tones of _Lonesome Whistle_. The gasp turns into a moan when Sherlock's thumb parts his arse cheeks and a single, precise fingertip traces the rim of muscles hidden inside.

A moment later he tenses. The muscles in his gluteal region, with names that John knows by heart but cannot find in his memory, contract and Sherlock faces a natural barrier of defence. Being touched down there cannot be described as anything but unnatural.

Sherlock's hand stops the intrusion but is not completely withdrawn. It rests on John's buttock, still with the thumb keeping the cheeks parted.

"Relax."

Sherlock leans forward and presses a kiss to John's temple. The smell of cigarettes intensifies with Sherlock's face so close to his and John licks his dry lips. Sherlock has taken him on an inner journey, challenged him to do unthinkable things and enjoy sinful deeds. Sherlock has made him trust a Greaser, question his faith and fall in love.

Slowly, he finds the courage to relax his body. His shoulders sink, his head tipping forward in defeat.

The fingers on Sherlock's other hand card through his hair.

"You enjoyed last night, didn't you?" Sherlock purrs in his ear, voice deep and sensuous.

John nods, unable to find words.

"You want to feel like that again, don't you?"

John nods again and he can feel the corners of Sherlock's lips, still positioned on his temple, pull up in a smirk.

"I can make you feel even better. Better than As and rugby. Better than anything you have experienced so far."

John takes a deep breath, his chest rising and falling, and he turns his head. He has to tilt his head back, but Sherlock understands his intention and meets him halfway in the kiss, sealing their lips in a silent agreement.

"That's a good boy."

The words are breathed into his mouth, each syllable sending a shiver down John's spine. He whimpers softly and Sherlock pulls back, examining John's flushed cheeks and insecure smile.

If they are going to hell they are going together.

Despite his surprise, John does not question Sherlock when the Greaser prods his wet lips. He relaxes his jaw and lets three fingers slide inside, tentatively exploring them with his tongue as Sherlock encourages him to. They taste of nicotine, a far less flattering taste than the smell, and John feels his face scrunch up despite himself. Sherlock's thumb, which is safe from John's sweeping tongue, guides his chin up and the moment their eyes meet electricity is shot straight into John's very core. He moans around Sherlock's digits, willingly opening himself up until he is choking and Sherlock withdraws his hand. They lower their gazes together, looking down at the three shiny digits with strings of saliva binding them together.

Sherlock lifts his hand again, uses the back of it dry John's chin and leans down to kiss him.

"We will practise, don't worry."

John's blush deepens. Shamefully, he has to admit that the space between the desk and his cock seemed to decrease while he had his lips tightly wrapped around Sherlock's fingers.

Sherlock kisses him again, until John cannot tell their tongues apart, and pulls away with a pat between his shoulder blades.

"Get down."

Guided by Sherlock's hand John lowers himself. By the time his elbows are in a perpendicular angle to the desk his upper body holds the same relationship to the floor with his arse cheeks naturally parted. Sherlock kisses his nape before he spreads them properly, kneading them for a second and then places a finger, draped in John's saliva, on his entrance.

John bites his lip, waiting with bated breath for Sherlock to continue.

A small circling motion has John tip his head down onto the desk and when Sherlock's fingertip breaches the tight rim he gasps. Sherlock's finger slowly works him open, careful not to cause any unnecessary pain as it pushes inside, bends, and is pulled back. Sherlock hovers above him like a predator, listening to John's gasps and whimpers as the first finger is followed by a second and he begins to scissor them, forcing the tight muscles to relax and expand the entrance with pain turning into pleasure and forcing a shudder through John's body.

Never before has he felt so alive, so present in the moment. Sherlock is the only thing on his mind. Sherlock, his skilled fingers and the wave of blinding pleasure which rolls up his spine when the Greaser bends his digits just right. Gone is the pain and the moment of hesitation, John could not convince himself to escape Sherlock's looming figure even if he wanted to. Like in trance, he lifts his head in a moan and at the same time arches his back, inviting Sherlock in.

Panting, needy and with a fine layer of sweat over his lower back he gives Sherlock access to his most precious place.

Sherlock entwines his fingers in John's hair, rubbing circles over his scalp, and John subconsciously lifts his arse higher.

“You are doing so well, my Golden Boy,” Sherlock murmurs and slowly withdraws the fingers from the depth of John's body. Cold air immediately sweeps down to fill the emptiness Sherlock left behind, making John's rim flutter.

“This might hurt,” Sherlock warns and continues in a mutter, so low that it can only be meant for the Greaser himself under the sound of a zip being pulled down. “I want to feel you stretch around me.”

Sherlock's hands leave his body and John can feel a drop of saliva make its way out his open hole and down the path of skin to his balls. His heart keeps racing, wantonly expanding to occupy his entire chest, until it comes to a sudden stop and John's attempt to inhale is met by a firm wall where mouth turns into throat. The head of Sherlock's cock, swollen and with a pearl of pre-cum lingering on the slit, mercilessly ignores the restrictions of John's entrance as it pushes inside with a quiet but extended groan from the Greaser.

The sound leaving John's lips is far less pleasurable. The gasp breaks through the barrier in his throat and he whines. The whine turns into a cry of pain when Sherlock forces himself deeper, whereupon the Greaser's sharp fingers dig into his hips.

“Shush,” he hisses irritatedly. “Do you want your parents to see you like this?”

John swallows thickly, forcing back both tears and a lump in his throat as he shakes his head. “No.”

“Thought so.”

Sherlock is muttering, but his grip around John's hips eases and he leans forward to pet the blond hair as he pushes inside and finally stops, filling John completely with his balls against the skin where a drop of saliva earlier descended.

The Greaser's cock, feeling impossibly big inside of John, makes him see stars. The pain is worse than the caning and although John tells himself to relax, his muscles keep contracting and throbbing around Sherlock.

A groan from Sherlock and hands, clumsy with greed, assaulting his back tell him that Sherlock, despite John's pain, enjoys himself.

“It hurts,” John whimpers, aghast at Sherlock's selfish deed.

Sherlock hushes him and the desperate touches calm down as a lanky finger instead touches his lips. “It will be all right,” he promises quietly. “Give it a moment. You are very tight, John, but you will stretch. Keep breathing.”

Sherlock's hands remain eager when they disappear up John's shirt, examining every patch of skin within his reach, but the small kisses on John's neck speak of tenderness. They fill John's chest with warmth. Naive like a young child and desperate for confirmation he absorbs the sign of affection, gentle and fond, and lets it drape the darker parts of Sherlock in shadows.

“Good boy.”

John can hardly hear the husky voice over the music from his record player when his body slowly accepts Sherlock's intrusion. He exhales slowly and, once his lungs are empty, licks his lips. He would not call it comfortable, but he no longer feel the need to bend double in blinding pain.

“Such a good boy.”

Sherlock, who must have seen the change in John's body language, repeats the praise, gives him one last kiss on the back of his neck and then straightens up. The big hands find his hips and the snake inside of him moves, not biting but still treacherous as it thrusts back inside.

John prefers it that way, when his cheeks shine like lighthouses for Mr. Davis to see and Sherlock's movements draw small gasps from him rather than cries of pain. His back occupies none of the Greaser's attention as Sherlock's fingers tighten their grip with enough strength for ten small bruises to form along his hips. They are dangerous marks would anyone see, but at that moment John does not care. He feels marked by Sherlock, owned and taken, and with ownership comes responsibility of love and protection.

Sherlock's balls slap against him, like an extra instrument in the music, and John cannot hold back the moans. The promiscuous noise comes naturally, a noise that he the night before took in his mouth for the first time, and he soon has to bite his own arm to stop himself from screaming.

Sherlock does not show him hell. Sherlock shows him heaven.

John's trembling hand acts on its own when it leaves the wooden surface and disappears into the darkness below. His prick feels ready to burst, throbbing and fully erected.

A desperate, broken gasp leaves his lips when his fingers close around his cock, before Sherlock swats his hand away.

“Hands on the desk,” Sherlock orders him firmly and guides John up on his toes to have a better angle as he begins to thrust with earnest. “You're mine.”

A shiver, which does not come from the rhythmical stimulation of his prostate, runs down John's spine. With his hands once again in front of his face and with Sherlock's unwavering hold of his hips, rocking them apart and then forcing skin to smack against skin, John has to settle with the occasional rubbing of his bobbing cock against his own thigh. The stimulus, however brief, add to the already growing pleasure in his body and John soon whimpers, cheek pressed against the desk with his lips parted and eyes black. His hips join the rhythm of Sherlock's as he fucks himself back on the Greaser's cock, looking for the final trigger to release him.

It comes a moment later, when Sherlock takes pity on him and strong arms pull him up from the desk and presses him to a protective chest. One arm hooked under his armpit keeps John standing and its hand presses firmly over John's mouth as the other hand grabs his cock. It only takes a few firm strokes from Sherlock, matched with the unrestrained thrusting and a pair of lips sucking a deep purple mark on his neck, for John's knees to buckle. The orgasm hits him with unforgiving strength and there is little John can do but sob into Sherlock's palm as the walls inside his arse clench around the Greaser's cock.

Unlike John, Sherlock remains steady and strong. He pulls out once he is finished, closes the button in his jeans, and picks a trembling John up in his arms. With a sweeping motion he clears the mess on the bed and lays him down, whereupon he disposes John off his jumper and shirt and tucks him in.

“How are you feeling?”

Sherlock kicks his shoes off and joins John in the bed, immediately drawing the younger boy closer and giving the top of his head a kiss. John smiles, reluctant to break the magical moment with words, and places his arm over Sherlock's side.

“Good,” he whispers. “Great, in fact.”

Sherlock looks down at him and a small smile tugs on his lips. “Good.”

Their lips meet in a kiss, soft and affectionate, as if Sherlock is attempting to make up for the previous roughness, and when they part they prolong the moment of perfection by gazing into each other's eyes.

Until John has to look away.

“Sherlock?” He whispers the name with his insecure eyes focusing on Sherlock's shoulder as he get a 'mh' in return. “Where were you today?”

“Sluffing,” Sherlock murmurs, putting more energy into making his voice send a shudder down John's spin than into his actual reply. “School is boring.”

John nods slowly and cuddles closer to Sherlock when the Greaser's fingers stroke his naked back. “And before you came to see me?”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow and pulls back enough to look down at John's face.

“What are you saying? That I have been with another boy?”

John refuses to meet Sherlock's accusatory gaze when he licks his lips, a gaze that still is too dark.

“No,” he whispers weakly. “No, Sherlock, I would never... No.”

“So what are you saying?”

Sherlock's eyebrows keep rising and he lifts himself up onto his elbow to glare down at John.

“I'm just...” John swallows thickly and shrugs, before he gives up with a sigh. “You are intoxicated, aren't you?”

Sherlock's eyes narrow dangerously. “I have not had a single drop of alcohol, John.”

John nods and then shakes his head with his cheeks and ears heating up. “No, not by alcohol. By... Sherlock, you... You abused drugs before you came here, didn't you?”

A moment later John wishes that he had enjoyed the peace with Sherlock instead of turning it into a war. Sherlock's face immediately darkens, quicker than day turns into night in late December, and the warmth which has filled John since the orgasm disappears.

“That is none of your business,” Sherlock snaps angrily. “Is that how you thank me? Your ungrateful little...”

John shrinks, but when he finds the courage to glance up at Sherlock, the Greaser is looking away.

Hiding his dilated pupils. Chewing on the inside of his lip.

“Hey.” John brushes his hand down Sherlock's side with a sigh. “I'm sorry. You're right, it is none of my business. I guess I am jealous.”

Slowly, Sherlock turns his head to look at him. “Jealous?”

John nods eagerly with an attempt to look convincing. “Very jealous.”

“John.” Sherlock sighs and cups his cheeks. “I am not seeing anyone else. I have only got eyes for you.”

The Greaser leans down and kisses him and John, happy that the fight appears to be over before it properly began, is not late to reciprocate.

“Love and drugs are how people control you, you know,” John mumbles when one of Sherlock's hands wanders down his back to gently rub his arse.

“No one controls me,” Sherlock replies calmly with a finger exploring the stretched entrance. “Don't worry, my Golden Boy.”

John sighs softly when the long finger slides inside of him and he places his leg over Sherlock's jeans-covered ones.

“But I do worry,” he insists. “I would feel a lot better if I could meet him.”

He leans up and pecks Sherlock's lips, playing all cards at hand to win the Greaser's permission.

Sherlock's expression is indecipherable as he withdraws his finger and slowly rubs the cum onto John's cheek. “If only you could have this part of me inside of you forever... Forever mine.”

“Sherlock, please.”

Sherlock lowers his gaze and slowly nods with the tip of his tongue flicking out to taste the remains of the peck they shared.

“Very well. Saturday morning. You, me and Victor Trevor.”

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

As wonderful as it is to lie close to Sherlock after their bodies had been merged into one, to share lazy kisses and to feel gentle fingers wander over his naked skin, John is not fond of what comes next. The following day brings soreness, enough to make him limp like after a challenging game of rugby when he makes his way down the stairs. His room is empty and his bed carefully made, with his window ajar to ventilate the musky scent of sex and intimacy. Sherlock descended from the same window before the sun was fully risen, kissing John's forehead and in a low, purring voice telling him to go back to sleep. He would be back later.

John does not know what Sherlock regards as later, but he does know that he is grateful for the Greaser's discretion. It is bad enough that muscles, of which existence he did not know until Sherlock forced his way inside the previous night, protest with each step he takes.

Breakfast is already on the table when John reaches the bottom of the stairs and his stiff movements carry him into the kitchen. In his hand he holds the plate his mother had prepared his sandwiches on the evening before and he knows, from how many pages in the morning's paper his father has turned, that he is late.

“Good morning.” His voice is nearly timid when he walks up to the sink to clean the plate before he takes his seat at the table. He knows that his entrance still is stretched and he knows what his mother will find if she lifts the blanket in his bed. Sherlock's cum, which seeped out through his arse during the night. He has lost his virginity and he lost it to a boy.

Mrs. Watson gives him extra jam on his piece of bread and hands it to him with a worried look. “Is everything as it should, John?” Her hand moves up to his cheek when John has relieved her of his breakfast and she strokes it gently. “I was so worried when you never returned home.”

John shrugs, giving her as little of an explanation as the previous afternoon. “I'm fine, Mummy.”

“John...”

“John, answer your mother.” Mr. Watson's voice is heard through the newspaper, which John knows is hiding a cup of tea as spectacle-dressed eyes follow the rows of words.

John sighs and swallows the food in his mouth before he replies.

“I spent the night at a friend's house. I know, it is irresponsible to have a sleepover on a school night, I should have called and I did deserve being sent to my room yesterday.”He ducks away from his mother's hand which still caresses the skin she the slapped a few hours earlier. “I'm sorry.”

He suspects that even his father would lower the newspaper if he were to reveal exactly what he and Sherlock spent the last two nights doing.

* * *

 

Later turns out to be nearly an hour after John has finished his breakfast and managed to change to clean sheets in his bed. The Cadillac rolls up like the car of a film star and John, who feared that Sherlock would fail his promise of taking him to Victor Trevor, hurries to get his jacket. Halfway down the stairs his blood freezes and he walk back the way he came.

The leather jacket.

It is still in his possession, still hidden in his wardrobe. He loves the scent and how heavy it feels over his shoulders, as if Sherlock's arm never leaves him, but he is already balancing on the edge and a single puff of air would be enough for him to tip over and fall back into being grounded. Luckily, being good allows him to be bad.

His parents would never suspect that he is up to anything bad. Harriet, yes, but not their good, well-mannered little John. Still a baby in their eyes, still innocent. Spending a night away is soon forgotten and he has but call a goodbye from the front door before he leaves, Sherlock's jacket partly hidden under his arm.

He understands a moment later that it hardly will be necessary. The sun is shining, not only encouraging the process of photosynthesis in an ever blooming nature but also enveloping him in pleasant warmth. It does not come as a surprise that the roof of the Cadillac is once again folded. A pair of dark shades protects Sherlock's eyes from the sun rays and his white t-shirt leaves no doubt as to why the Greaser has the reputation of being one of the best fighters at school. Sherlock leans over to open the door on the passenger side, the muscles in his arms flex and John's stomach tingles.

He is proud to call Sherlock his.

The distance up to the car is quickly covered as John hurries up to him with a grin growing wider with each step. The pain in his backside is all but forgotten, suppressed by the happiness of seeing the man who gives _Romeo and Juliet_ a proper meaning, and he sits down without his usual timidness and hesitation.

Sherlock, who clearly notices the difference, chuckles and gently rubs John's thigh.

“I take it you still feel great?”

Sherlock's hand leaves John's leg to shift gears as they leave the street and once they are on a safe distance from John's home the Greaser's arm wraps around his shoulders. It would be enough for someone to send a glance in their direction to see their inappropriate intimacy, but John does not give it a second thought. He trusts Sherlock to keep him safe.

“Are you sure you want to spend Saturday with Victor?” Sherlock pulls his hand back just long enough to safely take them through a turn and then makes up for the moment of not touching him by squeezing John's shoulder. “I could take us back to the lake. Lay you down in the soft moss, undress you and cover your body with kisses...”

A bright blush appears on John's cheeks and he licks his lips. It takes more self-control than it should to reject Sherlock's offer.

“I want to meet Victor,” he insists and he can almost see Sherlock roll his eyes behind the shades.

“You really are jealous, aren't you?” Sherlock huffs, partly annoyed and partly pleased.

John nods, but his wish to see Victor is far less romantic. It is based on helplessness and utter fear that the man Sebastian calls Mr. M will realise his threat. John shudders despite the warm temperature and Sherlock, who interprets it as a reaction to the building they have stopped in front of, pulls him into his arms.

“Don't worry, my Golden Boy,” he murmurs and kisses his way into John's mouth. “They know better than to touch what's mine.”

Sherlock does not have to take the punishment of homosexuality into consideration as the kiss grows hungrier. They are surrounded by dull industries and, much like B Street Biker's base, most of them seem to have been claimed by society's outcasts. Gaping holes stare at them where glass once used to protect the room inside from wind and rain and John doubts the police even bothers to investigate the car wreck left to decay in the far end. The part of town, hidden and forgotten by those who know to stay out of trouble, follows its own law of order.

“I told you the lake would be more pleasant.”

Sherlock withdraws and gently strokes John's cheek. John is more than willing to agree, but there is nothing he can do. He has to be brave and, whereas Sherlock can keep him safe from those who want to physically harm him, it is his time to ensure the Greaser's safety.

“As soon as I have made sure there is nothing going on between this Victor and my boyfriend we can leave,” John says, quietly but firmly as he opens the door. He knows that Sherlock is smirking without turning around to look at him. The Greaser is proud and hearing John refer to him as his boyfriend will doubtlessly have his ego swell like water-filled bacteria attacked by penicillin, ready to burst.

Sherlock takes his hand and leads him inside, over the cobblestone, up the steps and through the squeaky door. The dark hallway makes the hair on John's neck stand. It is dark despite the bright sun outside and he can see dust whirl in the few sun rays that manages to break through the layer of dirt on the windows. His heart beats faster when a pair of decisive steps joins the sound of theirs and Sherlock's hand leaves his. Swallowing thickly, John looks up at him, only to be completely ignored as Sherlock's gaze is drawn to and locked at the doorway where a lanky figure soon appears. He walks with confidence and, like Sherlock, does not seem to mind the obscurity. With soft curls in need of a proper wash and with shadows falling underneath his eyes on the pearly skin he looks like a blond Sherlock, cheekbones sharp and face emaciated.

“Already in need of another fix, Holmes?” The young man's laugh is empowered in the naked hallway where the lack of any kind of decoration allows the sound to bounce off the walls in an ominous echo. “You know what I said last night. No more doses in advance. I want the payment up front from now on.”

He looks awfully pleased with himself and John's stomach turns. Sherlock is clever, but he appears to have walked straight into the man's claw-like fingers. The Greaser does not want another dose, he _needs_ it. He craves it.

“I'll get you the bread, Victor,” Sherlock says coldly. “My brother's being a wet rag again. He's trying to cut me off the family money.”

“I don't care about your family disputes.” The reply is as cold as Sherlock's voice and Victor starts walking again. He approaches them slowly and it is not until John can distinguish every crease in the man's shirt that Victor's gaze drops. “You know I don't require money.”

Fingers, as long as Sherlock's and with a slight tremble, stroke over John's shoulder. They are gentle but do not ask for permission as they reach John's neck and push his shirt collar down enough to reveal the purple mark left there by Sherlock's lips. John barely catches a glimpse of the smirk on Victor's lips before Sherlock's unforgiving arm sweeps through the air and hits John over his rib cage with enough force to give him a fearful moment of struggling for breath.

“Mine.”

John is pushed behind Sherlock's tall back and Victor laughs at Sherlock's threatening growl.

“I can tell,” he replies calmly and wipes his fingers on his worn sleeve. “One might say he is properly marked.”

It is like Sherlock's arm once again collides with his ribs. John is fighting a war he cannot win. A two front war. In his attempt to buy the silence of the one man who knows about his and Sherlock's unusual intimacy he has revealed the secret to yet another man. The domino effect has begun, the tiles are falling.

“It was a fair assumption to make,” Victor continues, obviously more amused than Sherlock. “You bring me a square like him, how am I supposed to not believe he is your payment? He looks terrified, I'm sure he will do anything you tell him to.”

“He is not a gift, Victor,” Sherlock snaps. “You can have your fun with the junkies who are unable to pay.”

“Unlike you, you mean?” Victor chuckles. “You have until tomorrow to pay for what you used last night, or we have no choice but to go back to our former arrangement.”

John can see Sherlock inhale when he looks up. The deep breath raises his shoulders, stiffens them, straightens the neck and tenses it. Sherlock is struggling to remain apathetic.

“Goodbye, Victor.”

He pushes John outside with a slight tremble of repressed anger, forcing him to move with a hand on his neck as Victor's sounding laughter follows them through the hallway.

It rings in John's ears, confidently and sinisterly, as they descend the steps to freedom outside. It is so deeply imprinted in his eardrum that the sound of traffic disappears in comparison until Sherlock forces him into the car and slams the door shut. The sharp noise makes him jump and he stares wide-eyedly as the Greaser rounds the car and takes his seat. The engine is dead but Sherlock's fingers curl around the steering wheel. With the already pale knuckles turning alarmingly white an even more worrying image of how Sherlock drives the car into Victor's defenceless body appears in John's mind and he quickly leans over the gear stick and places his hand on Sherlock's.

“Relax.”

The plea is left hanging in the air until Sherlock turns his hand and laces their fingers together. “I am relaxed.”

“No, you're not,” John protests. “You are upset. You have been staring at the windscreen as if it deserves to die for the last five minutes. The windscreen didn't bring you here, I did. You're angry with me.”

“I'm not angry with you.”

“Yes, you are.

“No, I'm not.” Sherlock's tight voice is followed by a loud honk as the Greaser's frustrated fist lands on the car horn. “Shut up.”

John does as he is told and silence falls around them. It is impossible to tell if someone is observing them from behind the dirty windows, but John does not care as he gently rubs Sherlock's thigh. The damage is already done.

Sherlock is coaxed out of his shell with every touch of affection until John finds himself in the Greaser's arms.

“I'm not angry with you, John,” Sherlock repeats, in a deeper, softer voice than before. “You have been very good for me. I have no reason to be upset.”

He guides John's chin up and pecks his lips, a sign with many layers of inside meaning. Affection, loyalty and trust in all its glory, but what makes John's eyes warm with gratitude when they separate enough to press their foreheads together with Sherlock's hand slowly rubbing the back of his neck is the fact that it was not an act of forgiveness. A hand through his hair forgives, a peck without it tells there never was anything to forgive.

“Do you trust me now?” Sherlock's lips find his for a brief second before he continues. “There is nothing going on between Victor and me. You heard him. He mentioned our former arrangement. It's over.”

“He wants you back,” John points out, his voice quiet as Sherlock erases his will to do anything but relax under the tender fingers now carding through his hair. “If you can't-”

“If I can't pay.” Sherlock finishes his sentence with a tight smile. “Which I can. I never cared for him like I care for you, my Golden Boy. My relationship with Victor was purely sexual.”

“If that is supposed to be reassuring-”

Sherlock cuts him off once again, this time with a chuckle.

“It was simply convenient, an alternative payment. Besides-” Sherlock's voice drops and the petting through John's hair stops as the Greaser moves his hand to instead touch John's thigh with a smirk appearing on the delicate lips as John automatically spreads them. “He taught me a thing or two.”

* * *

 

Due to the nature of their relationship the future is obscure, but life seems a little brighter when Sherlock, unwilling to part so soon, drops John off outside his house. Victor cannot turn them in without getting himself in trouble for the same deviation and John has successfully acquired the demanded information for Mr. M. His wet lips are a proof of Sherlock's feelings, which, if he ever doubted, finally have been spoken out loud.

Sherlock cares for him and he cares for Sherlock.

He cares to the degree that he will decline a snogging session in the Greaser's car, including a demonstration of what Victor taught Sherlock, in order to retrieve the dangerous photograph.

With the sun keeping him warm the leather jacket remains thrown over his shoulder, where the skin underneath is boiling. He aimlessly walks through the town, up one street and down another. With no address, telephone number or even a name he can only hope that Mr. M will find him.

He reaches the school, with its dark eyes staring at him, abandoned and forgotten until Monday arrives and it once again will come to life, and walks past it. Mr. Stokes' address is still in his pocket and if John concentrates on it he can feel the paper move with every step. The teacher can help with much, from reaction pathways to the conductivity of metals, but not with this. In this, the teacher is, just like everyone else, the enemy. One of those who will tear his and Sherlock's love apart.

Someone like Mr. M.

The man finds him. In control of everything, he acts as though he expected John to walk past the grocery store at that exact moment. He looks pleased when he beckons John into the shadows behind the building, whereas John feels sick. His stomach is riding a roller-coaster and just came across a particularly vicious drop.

The way the man stands, the expensive suit he is wearing and the authority he emits, glues John's tongue to the roof of his mouth. Tells him to speak only when spoken to.

“I was told by one of my men that you were seen wandering around.”

The man breaks the silence, and not to make John any more comfortable. His gaze automatically flickers up, sweeps over the waste container and the open streets a few metres away. “If you want to find Sherlock's dealer, why not follow Sherlock himself?”

“Sherlock would never forgive me if he found out,” the man replies. “And trust me, he would. He is far more observant than you are, John. Now here is what we will do.” John presses his lips together while the man reaches for the inside pocket of his suit jacket and gracefully pulls out the photograph. “You will tell me who this dealer is and where I can find him. Don't even think about lying.”

“Victor Trevor.” The option of telling a lie does not even cross John's mind as he looks up at the man's scrutinizing eyes. They are Sherlock's, seeing straight through him. Like Sherlock's, they are superior to him in a way he cannot fully understand. “His base is among the old industries.”

A heavy exhalation follows his words. A moment later he extends his hand and waits for the power play to end, for the man to complete his part of the deal. The photograph feels like safety when it is placed in his hand and John wastes no time as he puts it inside his pocket.

Their unpleasant meeting is over and the man turns to saunter onto the adjacent street. A final string of words is thrown over his shoulder before he blends with the crowd enjoying the warmth from the sun and the freedom only Saturday afternoon can bring.

“You have been most useful to me, John.”

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

 ”Traitor.”

Sherlock's sharp voice cuts through John's head and joins the countless other insults already thrown at him. He should be horrified but numbness fills his body. Sherlock's anger is directed directly at him this time, not luring behind mind games and manipulations.

It is Sunday and for the second week in a row, John skips church. Going was never an option, not when he woke up with two furiously gleaming eyes merely an inch away as rough hands shook him awake.

Sherlock knew.

Nothing John said could disarm the ticking bomb and fifteen minutes later he found himself in the corner of the street, guided there by the Greaser's commanding words. The fresh morning air taints his cheeks pink and plays with the sheer fabric of his pyjama bottoms, for the first time on display for the neighbourhood's curious eyes. The leather jacket is as useless as his words and today it does not draw a proud smirk from the other's lips where it hangs awkwardly over John's shoulder, one sleeve over his arm and the second hanging along his back as a result of Sherlock's impatience. The Greaser towers above him and John nearly crouches in fear of being beaten, but Sherlock does not resolve to physical violence. There is no need for injuries when each syllable leaving the skilled tongue resembles whiplashes.

“I should have known. I should have seen it coming. People are nothing but trouble.”

“But I-”

John's attempts to explain turn into stuttering as Sherlock interrupts him time after time. The Greaser will not let him explain, will not understand that John denounced Victor for him.

For them.

Sherlock snatches the jacket off his shoulder and John watches it fold under the Greaser's arm with a lump in his throat.

“Please,” he whispers. “Sherlock, I-”

“You're walking to school tomorrow.”

With that Sherlock leaves, turning to let John throw the words he cannot find at a tall and unresponsive back board.

* * *

  
Sherlock does not resolve to physical violence, but John struggles for breath when he stumbles back home. The house lays empty and his bedroom window, where Sherlock entered and left, stands ajar. John closes it heavy-heartedly, with a deep sigh not matching the chirping of birds outside. He dresses slowly and tries not to think about Sherlock, about his parents' worry when he rushed out the door that morning without any explanation. Trying not to think at all.

He fails severely. His gaze falls on the corner of a small photograph hidden under his jumpers and he abandons the plans of closing his wardrobe to instead pick it up. Sherlock's hair is dark like the night and his skin fair. Pure perfection he lost due to a moment of romantic vagary. A couple of photographs to immortalise his and Sherlock's feelings and one nightmare embodied in flesh. To think that Mr. M entered his house and searched his room sends a shudder through John's body and he turns around to look at the door, as if he expects the man to stand there. The door is closed and the room empty, and he slowly exhales. Mr. M can impossibly be a demon sent to punish him.

John gives the flat surface portraying wild curls a light brush with his thumb and goes to put the photograph away. Somewhere safer, because if Mr. M can find it, so can his mum.

A small paper tube under his bed is the current home of the photographs. John gets on his knees to reach it and brings it with him as he sits down on the bed. It is not as romantic as what it hides. An old package of Spangles, now emptied of its sweets and instead filled with photographs, each carefully rolled to fit but not folded as not to leave any creases. He eases them out gently and begins to flatten them, but stops when he realises how many photographs he is holding in his hand. Three. Together with the one on the desk he has four. Grumpy Sherlock, surprised Sherlock, Sherlock kissing him and the one on the desk, also that one capturing Sherlock's hungry kiss.

Sherlock's photograph.

Sherlock's mess.

A decisive knock on the front door sends John to his feet and the photographs quickly disappear down his pocket as he guiltily looks up. He is not expecting visitors and anyone who knows his family knows that Sunday morning is spent in church. His brain jumps to the logical explanation and his heart skips a beat with the consequent happiness.

Sherlock.

The Greaser must have realised his mistake.

John rushes down the stairs and pulls the door open, ready to pull Sherlock inside with the same force and kiss him right there, but almost gasps as he slams into an invisible brick wall. Sebastian stands in front of him.

“Stop staring,” the Greaser mutters grumpily. “I ain't a ghost, punk. Where's Holmes?”

“He... He is not-”

“I know he's not here, Mickey Mouse.” Sebastian interrupts his stuttering and invites himself inside as he pushes past John. “Lestrade sent me here to bash ears. Told me you'd know where 'e went.”

John nervously observes Sebastian as the Greaser picks up a photo frame of him and Harriet.

“I don't know where he is,” he replies honestly. “He left. I don't know where to.”

The lump is back in his throat. It aches when he admits that Sherlock left him, and not only to take a trip.

“Tell 'im that he messed up one time too much. His rod's the fastest we've got and he's missed too many drags.” The Greaser puts the photo down and turns around to see a red-eyed John wipe away a tear. “You crying?”

“You can tell him yourself. Sherlock doesn't want to see me any more.”

John's words are thick, but his voice still carry a bitterness even Sebastian distinguishes. A frown appears between the Greaser's eyebrows and he tilts his head to the side ever so slightly, whilst trying to solve the equation in front of him. John, uncomfortable by the scrutinising eyes, looks away, only to have his gaze darting back to Sebastian when the other suddenly speaks.

“We're leaving. Come on.”

Maybe Sebastian feels as suffocated by the house as John feels by Sebastian's presence. There is something wild about the teenager that makes him look as misplaced inside the Watson's neat home as a tiger in the middle of London. The Greaser's motorcycle is parked by the pavement and Sebastian begins to push it down the street with John traipsing a few feet away. Uncomfortable silence hangs over them and John nearly wishes that Sebastian would let the engine roar to life, until the Greaser finally speaks.

“So you're a rugby player too, yeah?”

John looks up and a deep frown decorates his forehead. Sebastian looks nearly pained by the effort of initiating an everyday chat with someone wearing a slip-over over a neatly ironed shirt.

“Yes.” A one syllable word, spoken often throughout the day and not rarely in response to questions like Sebastian's, comes out choked and hesitant. “I told you the first time we met.”

John glances up at Sebastian's sharp face to see how he takes the reminder. Some people take a gentle reminder to be equivalent to being called stupid, something John with his top grades and benevolence knows only too well, but Sebastian does not seem to care where he drags his feet around the street corner. The teenager nods and they fall back into the state of silence only interrupted by the tapping of feet against the cobblestone. The rhythmic sound echoes in John's head and his own shoes become the sole focus of his attention until they round yet another corner and a realisation begins to grown inside his head.

“Rugby is great, isn't it?”

He looks up at Sebastian in time to see him tilt his head in a brief nod.

“Yes. Yes, it is.”

A small, complacent smirk appears on John's lips. He and Sebastian may come from different worlds, but a few things have the power of uniting even the most contrasting personalities.

“What do you like about it?”

“I get to push around punks like you.” The teasing smirk spreads over Sebastian's face before John's eyes widen too much. The smirk turns into a chuckle and before John knows it he stumbles a couple of steps forward, pushed by the strong hand patting his back. Sebastian catches up with him effortlessly with the wide grin of someone who is very pleased with himself. “I also like that I'm dead good at it.”

“I like that reason better,” John admits and Sebastian gives another amused laugh.

“Of course you do, punk,” he teases. “And to be 'onest, the first one was a lie. There were no punks in the teams to push around. How someone like you got onto the team, I don't know. They must've run out of options or something.”

“I am actually a decent player,” John begins, but Sebastian is not interested in his opinion.

“You replaced me, didn't you?” Sebastian shakes his head with a huff. “You're tiny. The biggest part of you are your binoculars.”

Sebastian laughs again and John, sensing that the friendly conversation quickly turns into a a one way mockery, looks away with a pout. A pout Sherlock would have kissed better.

The darkness fills John before he can wrap his arms around himself and Sherlock is back on his mind. Overwhelms him with memories of firm lips and gentle touches. Sebastian notices the drastic change and shrugs.

“You don't have to overreact,” he mutters. “I was just teasing.”

The hint of regret in the Greaser's voice goes unnoticed as John gives a light shrug. “I don't care.”

John's legs function on their own as they carry him down the street. His mind is busy elsewhere, he neither sees nor hears until Sebastian's lips form the only name John wants to hear.

“Holmes?”

John never thought a man would leave him heartbroken, but he feels tears burn behind his eyelids. He has to stay strong or Sebastian will know. A boy does not cry over another boy.

“Here.” Sebastian must have guessed the answer. John blinks down at the offered cigarette and when he hesitates Sebastian pushes it closer. “Trust me.”

It feels wrong in his hand. He cannot hold it with the same graciousness as Sherlock and Sebastian and once it is lit and he takes a drag the white smoke does not leave his lips in a slow and beautiful stream. John coughs it out with the force of contracting throat muscles and a stomach that quickly turns inside out. The cigarette drowns him in nausea and a whirl of colours glistering through the tears in his squinted eyes. Sebastian laughs somewhere above him and John gasps for breath when the teen gives his back a couple of firm pats.

“I should'a known you couldn't handle it,” he sniggers and takes the cigarette from John's trembling fingers. “This is Woodbine. Gaspers are too strong for nerds.”

John wipes the tears and takes a deep breath. His throat is still burning and he has to hold on to Sebastian's arm to prevent himself from faltering in a spinning world. Never again will he trust Sebastian.

“You're not frosted, are ya? I didn't mean for that to happen.”

John looks up and with pure will straightens his back. He is every negative word Sebastian can find in his vocabulary.

“I couldn't know Holmes never gave ya weed,” Sebastian continues and puts the cigarette between his lips to have a hand free for John. It pats his back until John breathes normally and then quickly withdraws to the safety of the motorcycle handle. He looks guilty behind the tough exterior and John quickly jumps to a conclusion as to why.

“Sherlock won't hurt you for it. He doesn't care.”

John starts walking and this time it is Sebastian who has to catch up with him. The Greaser does so with a few, long strides and he looks down at him.

“What's going on between you and Holmes anyway? I thought he cared a great deal about you.”

John shrugs, but Sebastian refuses to let it go.

“He made me take Chemistry to keep an eye on you and didn't he come muttering 'bout how rugby would be the end of ya?”

“I wouldn't know what he muttered,” John says with a tone that clearly shows that he wants the conversation to end. “I wasn't there.”

“But he did,” Sebastian insists. “I heard it myself. He stands up for ya, why wouldn't he care all of a sudden?”

“Because he is an obnoxious, self-centred Greaser.” John turns around and he glares at Sebastian behind his glasses. “That's why. He just left. ”

Sebastian is silent for a moment before he replies, with a hint of hesitation in his deep voice.

“I know what it's like to care for someone more than they care for you.”

John's angry eyes relax and widen and Sebastian looks away with a shrug.

“I'm just saying. It's better to not get involved. Once you are, it's too late.”

“I just thought... he cared.” John's voice is small and he bites his bottom lip. Of all the people present in his life, he never thought Sebastian would be the one to comfort him. The Greaser is two years older, intimating and rough. He is the person who changes girls more often than he washes his greasy hair and who never gets attached enough to be left with the feeling of decay John is carrying inside.

“People care until they don't have a reason to care any more,” Sebastian says, and John can tell by the unusual look of concentration on his features that he is choosing his words with great care. “Why would they care once they have what they came for? You're a rugby player. It gives ya a certain power over the Dollies, if ya know what I mean. It's the same. Once ya have what you came for, you cop a breeze.”

John does know, and the insight makes him feel even worse.

“But never mind that.” Sebastian gives the back of his head a playful push to get him moving and he rolls his eyes. “So Holmes faded out. He never was earthbound, bit of an odd ball. Honestly, I don't know what he was doing with a cube like you. I'll clue you. You've got the jets. Don't be a hub cap, you're better off without him. Slurg?”

John looks up from the depressing sight of his own shoes and hesitates before he nods. “Sure.”

He does not know why Sebastian has made it his mission to cheer him up, but he appreciates the gesture. He would rather spend his day in the ice cream parlour with someone he fears than alone and grieving in his bedroom. Sebastian parks the motorcycle and he leads him over the checkered floor inside, instructing John to sit down at a table by the window while he places their order. Once the Greaser joins him he is carrying a milkshake in his hand, topped with a swirl of whipped cream and a single red cherry.

“Thank you.” John gives him a small smile and pulls the glass close enough to drink from the straw. The cold drink freezes his inside and freezes his feelings and it is exactly what he needs.

“So...” Sebastian breaks the silence after a while, looking more at the street outside the window than at John. “I could give you a ride to school tomorrow. Since Holmes's gone and you've still got that helmet. Might as well pick ya up.”

John stops drinking and moves his head away from the straw. Sebastian keeps surprising him. He looks into the Greaser's blue eyes for a moment before Sebastian looks away with a shrug.

“Never mind. It was a stupid idea.”

“No, it's... I appreciate the offer.” John pushes the milkshake closer to Sebastian to coax him out of the grumpy shield he quickly is assembling. “It would drive Sherlock mad. So let's do it.”

He chuckles and Sebastian joins in as he drops the cherry between his lips.

“I like that, kiddo. It's a date.”

There are more things than rugby that can unite a Greaser and a square.

* * *

 

Sebastian walks him out when the glass is empty. There is a smile on John's lips and the happy chirping of birds is not as big a contrast to his mood as before.

“I'll pay you back for the milkshake,” John promises as Sebastian tilts the motorcycle off its rest. “My mother makes a delicious apple pie. I will bring you some tomorrow.”

“I'm looking forward to it.”

Sebastian straddles the motorcycle and John can only admire the way he becomes one with the machine. He turns to leave when Sebastian starts the engine, but he can only take a few steps before the Greaser calls him back over the rumbling noise.

“Watson, hold on. I have to ask. You and Holmes, were you... You know. Close?”

John's inside turns as cold as the milkshake and he stares at Sebastian. The question could be innocent, but for some reason he does not believe it is.

“I don't know what we were.”

When he went to bed the previous night he called them boyfriends, but now he is starting to doubt what intentions Sherlock was hiding behind his sweet words. The rich boy with some time to kill, looking for a toy to wreck.

And wrecked it he did.

Sebastian does not question him further. He accepts the vague answer and a few seconds later the roar of a motorcycle disappears around the corner.

John sighs once he starts his walk home. The knowledge that his parents will be waiting for him, upset and likely to send him to his room again, slows down his steps. Sherlock has changed him, and he has changed him for the worse. Studying is not appealing when the Greaser has shown him how exciting life can be.

Deciding that the damage already is done, he takes a detour past the shops. The street is empty and the shopfronts are dark, and John can see his own reflection when he stops in front of the jewellery store. The bracelet is still locked around his wrist. He does not think his mother's wedding ring cost as much, the piece of jewellery is far too expensive for his and Sherlock's pathetic excuse for a romantic relationship. He sighs and is about to leave, when his gaze is drawn to something in the window. The reflection of a movement attracted his attention and when his focus reveals the blurry outlines of a man it is only the way every limb in his body has frozen to immobility that saves him from spinning around. The adrenaline slows everything else down and it feels like minutes until he can inhale and force himself to relax. The man has not moved from his spot by the tree and nor does he show any sign of knowing that John has noticed his presence. For now he is observing.

Waiting.  


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am back after a veeeery long break! Has it really been two years since I posted chapter 11? Time flies. I would like to thank everyone who has sent me kudos even though the story appeared to be dead. It warmed my heart every time I received the email notification, so thank you!   
> It took me a couple of days to read all the previous chapters but it was definitely worth it. I can't tell you how amazing it feels to dive back into this universe. I hope this and future chapters make the story justice, we have a lot of exciting stuff ahead of us with plots and subplots that come together at last.  
> Welcome back to all previous readers, hello to the new ones and without further ado  
> Enjoy!

John's gaze does not falter from the reflection of the man and he slips his hands inside his pockets as his head threatens to collapse under intense brain activity. He cannot stay there forever, but he is terrified of doing anything that will break the magic slumber and awaken the man. Even his breathing has slowed down to careful, withheld puffs of air.

He knows, without seeing the man's face, who is standing behind him. He can tell, from the way he carries himself and from the tailored suit.

Mr. M.

If only he had asked Sebastian to walk him home.

Sebastian who was assigned as his bodyguard, very appropriately so considering his prominent muscles, and who volunteered to stay even after his boss disappeared off to God knows where. Who showed John that even one of the most intimidating Greasers could pull his lips into a smile and who, after all, turned out to be rather friendly in his own somewhat clumsy way. Not to mention that Sebastian would be able to expel the demon haunting John.

John's fingers close around something in his pocket and he pulls it out. The second he must take his gaze off the threat to read the writing on the piece of paper is nerve wrecking, dangerous in every sense of the words and purely idiotic, but necessary. A moment later he is running.

He runs away from Mr. M, whose footsteps he can hear fall behind. He runs away from Sherlock, away from anyone who wants to hurt him, and to the man who promised to help.

He knows what danger follows him with expensive shoes and a rustle of clothes, but he does not know what danger lies ahead. Every corner, every change of direction, sends a new wave of nausea through him as his mind too lividly imagines strong hands of faceless men grabbing him by his arms and pulling him into the shadows.

How could he, the Golden Boy with straight As and a duteous member of society, become a target of drug dealers and the underworld's henchmen. John blames it all on Sherlock. Sherlock and his involvement in things which no one with a sense of morality should look at twice.

Stupid, selfish Sherlock, who dragged him into the dirt and left him there, could realistically be the indirect death of him, all while his mother and his father are enjoying a peaceful moment at Sunday service.

Mr. Stokes' flat is merely five minutes away, but sweat darkens John's shirt when he knocks on the door and prays for the teacher to open. In the back of his mind he knows that he brought this mess upon himself. He kissed a boy and he skipped church, and now he presses his back against the wall as he terrified listens to the sound of Mr. M approaching. The moment of surprise and the time he spends running on the rugby field earned him a lead, but a lead is only valuable if it gets him to safety. He has nowhere else to go. He cannot allow Mr. M to follow him home, the police is more of a threat than a savour and B Street Bikers’ headquarters are too far away for his numb legs to reach. Even if he stumbled through the door into the dirty garage, drenched in sweat and gasping for breath, he cannot be sure that Sherlock would not simply throw him back to the wolves, cold-heartedly and without mercy.

His eyes are scared when he turns his head in the direction of the sound of feet landing on cobblestone, in rhythm with his rapid heartbeat, and he leaves the doorway to continue down the street like a frightened rabbit when the door suddenly opens and John looks up at the surprised Mr. Stokes. He all but dives inside, slams the door shut and collapses against the wall. The teacher looks down at him with his lips parted, as if what he was about to say evaporated somewhere on his tongue.

John is panting with his palm pressed over his side, and it takes him a moment to collect himself enough to stand up and repair the damage of his rude entrance. Mr. Stokes still looks puzzled when John pushes up and tries to pin his glasses to his sweaty nose.

“John? I am delighted to see that you accepted my invitation, but what in the name of God happened to you?”

John takes a last, deep breath to calm down his racing heart and finds his somewhat strained voice.

“I'm very sorry for bursting in like that, Mr. Stokes.”

There is no time for a longer explanation. John turns his head to the side and in the silence that follows he can vaguely hear a pair of feet thundering by on the street outside. He appears to be safe.

For now. A cold set of fingers drag their way down his spine when he thinks about his parents, humbly saying their prayers to at any moment return home, blissfully unaware of who might be waiting for them.

“John?”

He looks up when Mr. Stokes' worried voice breaks through the thick fog of nightmare.

“You look awfully pale, John. Come in, a cup of tea will do you good.”

John's eyes are still distant and he reluctantly obeys the hand splayed over his shoulder blades, leading him into a simple but elegant sitting room. He is barely aware of the soft cushion of the sofa as Mr. Stokes firmly pushes him down and he can feel, even though it should be biologically impossible, how the pale colour on his cheeks turn green.

“They are in danger.”

His head spins and his feet fumble over the floor to get him into an upright position, but the teacher's firm hand is once again on his shoulder.

“Who are in danger, John? Tell me, I will call the police.”

“No!”

John's panicked voice nearly sends Mr. Stokes down on the floor with a hand clasped over his heart and John, embarrassed to make his teacher jump like a skittish rabbit, clears his throat.

“Don’t call the police,” he tries again, with a more pleading tone this time. He cannot get the police involved, the coward inside of him is not ready to face the consequences of his actions. It was foolish to believe that his secret would remain hidden once he managed to retrieve the forbidden photograph. Mr. M is untouchable, with or without physical evidence of John’s misdeeds. All he can do is to hope and pray that the man will refrain from harming his innocent parents who have nothing to do with Sherlock and is apparently boring attitude towards Mr M.

He sinks back into the sofa and hides his face in his palms to avoid Mr. Stokes’ examining gaze.

On a second thought, with the immediate danger gone and with his pulse returning to normal, it was less wise to seek refuge in Mr. Stokes’ home. The man’s eyes are intelligent, like Sherlock’s, and John is reluctant to make eye contact in the fear of what his teacher might contract from him.

Or he is simply seeing Sherlock’s beautiful features in every ordinary man.

He sighs and shrugs his shoulders. The shrug turns into a shudder and a moment later a soft blanket is carefully wrapped around his body.

“Tea,” Mr. Stokes concludes and John looks up from the darkness of his hands to watch him leave the room.

John has never visited a teacher before, and he briefly wonders whether it is appropriate to do so as he looks around in the sitting room. The mental exercise as to why it would upset his mother, the headmaster and perhaps most of all Sherlock, helps him take his mind off other, graver matters and he leans against the backrest with two of the blanket’s corners gathered up in his hand, by his chest. Sherlock is the _most_ person he has ever met. John cannot describe it by any other word. He is the most intelligent, the most beautiful and the most jealous. Paranoid. Worried that Mr. Stokes, his teacher, will come between them. That Mr. Stokes will be a threat to John, who did not even look at boys until Sherlock ruined him with his perfection.

“I am glad to see that you are feeling better.”

John gives his head a light shake and the stupid grin on his face fades. “What?”

Mr. Stokes chuckles and places a tray on the coffee table. “I apologise for bringing you back to reality, John. Dreams are usually more pleasant. Especially the dreams of a teenage boy.” He gives John a smile as he sits down at the other end of the sofa with his legs crossed, motioning towards the cup on the tray. “Please.”

John leans forward almost automatically, like a marionette puppet guided by Mr. Stokes’ waving hand, and he takes the cup between his palms. The heat is comforting; the warmth travels up his arm and into the rest of his body even before he raises the beverage to his lips. 

“Dreams are more pleasant.” He is ready to agree without hesitation. “Dreams, fiction… Anything that will take you away from reality for a moment.”

Sherlock.

It makes him feel somewhat better when he places his time with Sherlock under the category of unreality. If he considers the numbness inside, left after the loud and burning pain of being left by the boy he loved, as returning to reality. He is simply waking up from a wonderful dream. 

“Have you ever been in love, Mr. Stokes?”

The question slips out of his relaxed, unprepared lips. It is hardly an appropriate question to ask his teacher, but Mr. Stokes does not scold him for his mistake.

“No, John,” he replies with a softness in his voice, as if he suspects that the question originates in the turmoil of feelings inside John’s body. “I have experienced a wide range of emotions, but never love. Am I right in assuming that love is in on your mind?”

John hesitates before he nods. He never had the opportunity to say those words to Sherlock, but he knows with every cell in his body that he fell head over heels in love with the Greaser.

“Am I also right in assuming that you are no longer seeing this person?”

More hesitation followed by yet another nod.

“John.”

Mr. Stokes moves closer on the sofa, takes the cup of tea from his trembling hands. He did not even notice that he was shaking. The burning sensation reaches him with an unnatural delay. He looks down and sees a dark stain grow bigger on his thigh as the fabric of his trousers soaks up the tea he spilled. Like a clumsy child.

Thankfully, Mr. Stokes does not seem to mind even this time. He takes John’s hand in his and gives it a gentle squeeze.

“I warned you about Sherlock Holmes,” he says quietly. “I told you to stay away from him.”

The words are meant as comfort but bring nothing but panic to John’s eyes. He would pull back, stutter and deny the truth, if the fear had not paralysed him.

“Don’t be scared,” the man continues, sensing John’s horror. “You are not to blame, so I will not tell anyone. Sherlock Holmes lured you in. He cursed your mind and defiled your body. It’s not your fault.”

It is not his fault, but Mr. Stokes should not know that. He should not have seen the connection between John’s sad eyes and the absence of the leather jacket.

“I know that it’s wrong,” John finally says, weakly. It is the first time he discusses it with someone, not even Sherlock has been entitled to a verbal version of the guilt, the shame, the disgust and the self-loathing. Sherlock always read it off him, no words were ever needed to convey his confusion and the need for those tender fingers to card through his hair and put his mind at ease.

In a way, it feels good to finally share his darkest secret. Mr. Stokes listens to him without neither interrupting nor pulling away in disgust as John lightens his heart. He tells his teacher about Sherlock’s careful approach months ago, about their lunches underneath the protective leaves of the oak, about the thrill of flying down empty roads in a red Cadillac and about the improbable friendship he found in the Greasers. Each syllable that leaves his lips makes it easier to breathe.

The tea on the coffee table is cold by the time he exhales and leans back, emptied of both energy and secrets. The only thing he omitted in his narration is the kissing, the tender lips brushing against his, the demanding hands grabbing his body and the desperate moaning as their bodies merged into one. All before Sherlock left him.

Mr. Stokes is intelligent enough to himself fill in the blanks. He looks into John’s eyes with an expression that seems to say _it was wrong of him to use you like that_ , and John silently agrees.

 

* * *

 

Mr. Stokes gives John permission to borrow his telephone so that he can hear his mother’s angry voice and relieved reassure himself that his parents are safe, even if he is due another slap once his trousers are dry and he returns home. They are currently hanging inside Mr. Stokes’ bathroom, leaving John dressed in a pair of borrowed and too big jogging bottoms that the man eventually found in his flatmate’s wardrobe.

John has come to enjoy Mr. Stokes’ company. He is only seven years older than John, straight out of university, with tales about John’s current teachers as well as life at Cambridge University. To think that John almost threw away his good grades and a chance to have the same experience because he allowed a Greaser to manipulate his mind.

The petting through his hair was a vital part of the process, Mr. Stokes tells him. By repeatedly touching one of the more innocent erogenous zones on John’s body, Sherlock could exploit his sensitivity and confuse pleasure with affection.

 

* * *

 

 

The conversation has drifted to John’s wish to study medicine when Mr. Stokes is summoned at the front door by a short, loud knock. John waits on the sofa until a shout attracts his attention. The voice is angry, furious, deep and so familiar that his heart skips a beat.

Sherlock.

He follows the noise into the hallway, where his mere presence is enough to interrupt the chaos before him. Sherlock’s hand around Mr. Stokes’ neck, Mr. Stokes crouching in fear. Sherlock’s curls wild and his eyes dark until the moment they turn to look at John, who is struggling to keep the large trousers around his waist.

“John. We’re leaving.” Mr. Stokes backs away when he is released and Sherlock instead extends his hand towards John.  “Now.”

John stares at Sherlock, the boyfriend he loves so much that it hurts.

His ex-boyfriend.

“John.” It is Mr. Stokes’ voice that reaches him this time, right before the man places a hand on his shoulder. “John, remember what we talked about. Remember what he did to you.”

The voice is desperate, trying to make John understand. Trying to pull him out of the trance of staring into Sherlock’s beautiful eyes. John finds himself in the middle, the object of Sherlock’s and Mr. Stokes’ tug of war.

“John!” Sherlock’s voice is sharper now, it delivers a stern order that cuts through the hallway. “I need you to come with me. It is very important that you do. Now do as I say.”

Mr. Stokes tightens his grip around John’s shoulder, gives him strength, and with a shake of his head John is free.

“You hurt me.” He starts quietly, building strength as he stares at Sherlock with the emotions flooding through his body once again, as fresh and painful as when Sherlock left him that morning. “You hurt me today and you hurt me every day since we met. You manipulated me and you showed me sin. Leave me alone!”

His voice reaches its climax. He is angry, hurt and desperate, but most of all he is tired. Tired of Sherlock’s games. Tired of the dangerous company of the Greaser.

“Leave,” he repeats quietly. “It’s over.”

It is the first time he sees something resembling helplessness in Sherlock’s eyes. He watches the colourful irises move to Mr. Stokes before they return to John, and a moment later the helplessness is gone. Sherlock’s jaw is clenched, his eyes cold.

“As you wish.” He reaches for the door, pulls it open. “You win.”

 

* * *

 

Mr. Stokes is very pleased with himself, even if he tries to conceal it. He locks the door after Sherlock and offers John both praises for his strength as well as dinner. The final battle against Sherlock is fought and won.

John retreats into the bathroom when it is time to leave, ready to step back into his tea-stained trousers. The soft jogging bottoms were forgiving against his sore backside and the prospect of exchanging them is not a positive one. Granted the privacy of the locked bathroom door, he runs his hand over his pants. Underneath are the healing welts, given to him by the very man whose flat he has been occupying for the past few hours. They have healed well, the pain bothers him less and less frequently, so the shudder that runs through his body as he allows his hand to slip inside the waistband and onto his bare skin is not purely due to discomfort.

Sherlock was livid when he found out. Always protective. But he was also sweet, took his time with the marks on John’s buttocks. What followed was definitely worth the pain and humiliation in Mr. Stokes’ office.

John tugs the pants down to his thighs and stands on his toes to catch a glimpse of the faded bruising in the mirror. He frowns already before he sees it, prepared for six green lines across his skin.

And six green lines he sees.

Three diagonally, two vertically and one horizontally.

Written across his buttocks in thin welts given to him by an unforgiving rattan cane are two letters.

_SH_. 


	13. Chapter 13

_SH_.

John stares at the mark on his buttocks, blinks a few times and stares again. Just to be sure. The letters are angular, as if they have been carved into a bench down at the Old Forest Grounds by a young couple in love, but he cannot lie to himself.

SH for Sherlock Holmes.

His heart speeds up and the sudden increase makes him gasp when more oxygen is needed to satisfy his racing pulse. He is not Sherlock, but nor is he stupid. No one accidentally writes legible letters with a rattan cane. It requires planning. The first diagonal line on his left buttock needs to be placed in a way that allows the other two lines enough space to form the first letter. The vertical lines look so awkward considering their source that Mr. Stokes must have turned his wrist in an angle most inappropriate for a caning.

Mr. Stokes.

John shudders, suddenly cold. The walls of the bathroom are getting closer; the room is shrinking. He can hear the man moving around on the other side of the locked door, cleaning up after their meal whilst humming softly to himself. The contrast between the cold sweat erupting on John’s forehead and the slow tones of Bach’s Sonata No. 1 is chilling, he feels detached from his body and the adrenaline that is rushing through his veins seems to be throbbing in his ears.

_Pull yourself together_.

Sherlock’s deep voice echoes inside his head. It sounds annoyed, and John knows exactly why. He is being stupid, stubbornly denying the obvious because it is inconvenient.

_Beyond inconvenient_ , the voice corrects him. _Dangerous. Told you he was dangerous. Told you not to be alone with him._

John’s fingers are as white as the porcelain they convulsively hug; the sink is the only thing keeping him standing as he stares into the mirror without seeing his own reflection.  “It could be a misunderstanding.”

_Wrong._

“SH could mean anything.”

_It really couldn’t. He was sending a message._

“That’s ridiculous. Why would he?”

John closes his eyes, bows his head in defeat as his trembling lips form the two words Sherlock’s voice sends through his mind, his own voice weak but final. “Pressure point.”

They all warned him about Sherlock Holmes. Mr. M, Mr. Stokes, even Sherlock himself made it quite clear that a new world of unimaginable danger would surround him with its greedy, sin-dripping claws if he continued down the path that the Greaser showed him. John knew but was unable to resist the temptation of heavenly pleasure.

They all warned him, but who would he trust and where would he run when they all turned out to be the enemy?

The humming has stopped on the other side of the door. In the eerie silence that follows he can hear Mr. Stokes’ steps get closer, the sound of fingers tapping against the wood forces John back to an unpleasant reality.

“One moment!” He must pull himself together, just like his subconscious, annoyingly in Sherlock’s voice, told him to do. Step two is to get Sherlock out of his head as he leaves Mr. Stokes’ bathroom on feet as light as he entered it.  

He cannot look Mr. Stokes in the eye when he puts his plan into action. He keeps his head bowed, hoping to make it to the door and into freedom with minimal pleasantries exchanged between them, but it takes the man but a quick look for soft lips to pull into a smirk that is somehow conveyed in his voice as he speaks.

“Oh dear. Is something the matter, John? You look awfully pale.”

The words are kind, innocent even, but the cold voice distorts them into mockery.

“Look who has been a clever boy. I’m afraid that means I can’t let you go. Oh my.” Mr. Stokes’ voice is a new drawl of cold sarcasm. The Oxbridge accent is gone and John, not recognising the Irish accent as his teacher’s, looks up with a surprised frown.

Mr. Stokes is still standing before him, wearing the same suit and with the same neatly combed hair, but everything else has changed since he last saw him ten minutes ago. The dark eyes are dead. The smile on the man’s lips is not kind and his posture speaks of confidence in his own cunningness. 

The mask is gone. The devil has revealed his true form.

“James Moriarty,” the man offers as an explanation that fails to erase the confusion behind John’s glasses. “It is most pleasant to finally say goodbye to Brian Stokes, he was so dull with his caring, benevolent personality. Of course, Sherlock never trusted him. Did he enjoy my little message? Oh, I’m sure he did.” 

He walks up to the coat hanging by the door and wraps it around his shoulder in a sweeping motion that gives John a good view of the gun hidden in an inside pocket, a silent encouragement for him to follow.  “You are a lot slower than him, but I can’t blame you. You have a trusting, naïve soul. It’s rather sweet. Sadly, that will be the end of you. I have just the perfect place for Sherlock to collect your body.”

A smile that does not reach his eyes is playing on his lips when he turns around to beckon John, who follows on numb legs, through the open door.

“It’s time to leave for school, Johnny. That oak Sherlock has claimed as yours. If you run, I’ll shoot you and everyone else in sight.”

 

* * *

 

 

The streets are mostly empty as they make their way through town. The shops are closed and the few people they meet, on their way to the ice cream parlour, the movies or simply out for a stroll, become scarcer the closer they get to the school. It is as if the school grounds must be avoided at all cost on a day off.

John regrets not calling for help when they cross the silent parking lot in front of the building with dark windows. Not even Mr. M, who so far has had an annoying habit of appearing in the shadows in moments when John feels most vulnerable, is anywhere to be seen.

Moriarty spends the promenade entertaining them both with a descriptive explanation of what is to come as he with a dreamy voice tells John how he, with a rope around John’s thin neck, will suspend him from one of the branches in the oak just above the soft grass where he and Sherlock used to enjoy lunch together, as if he found the prospect of doing so most amusing. John is less amused by the idea of a ‘heartbroken Sherlock lifting John’s empty shell of a body, with unseeing eyes and a dumbly open mouth, from the branch where the life seeped out of him'.

He fears dying, because with the sin barely dry on his lips and between his thighs he knows that heaven does not await him on the other side. The gates will be shut and impenetrable for him. But, to Moriarty’s delight, John keeps his back straight and his head stubbornly lifted as they cross the lawn towards the oak. John thinks about the brave soldiers who perished in the war, about his uncle who never made it home.

He must be equally brave.

The tree gives him courage. He associates it with Sherlock, it reminds him of lazy lunches and afternoons spent under in the soft light seeping through the leaves above their heads, Sherlock’s fingers carding through his hair and John’s head on the Greaser’s lap.

If they were going to hell they were going together, and Sherlock had better meet him there one day.

It is the least the Greaser can do.

“I would tell you to make peace with your gods, but it looks like you already have.” 

Moriarty’s pupils are dilated when he stops John just underneath the oak. John would recognise the look anywhere; he has grown accustomed to it in Sherlock’s eyes. Where there should be fear for the dreadful deed he is about to conduct, John sees only excitement. Arousal.

The man’s tastes are as questionable as Sherlock’s.

“I am not the first person you kill.”

“You are right, Johnny,” Moriarty murmurs, not at all bothered by confessing to murder. John can even distinguish highly inappropriate pride in his voice. “Perhaps you can even name one of them?”

John answers without hesitation. It is so obvious that his own ignorance almost hurts.

“Mr. Morgan.”

The poor Chemistry teacher who took his last breath too early because of the man in front of him, the man who only laughs at the repressed anger in John’s voice.

“He had to go.” There is no regret in either Moriarty’s words or his movements when he finds a rope inside his coat, appropriately tied into a noose, and moves to tie the other end around a branch. “The best way to gain your trust was to act as your teacher and I just so happened to know that you study Chemistry. If you run I will shoot both you and your parents.”

He adds the last declaration as if he could read John’s mind. Moriarty must climb the lowest hanging branches of the oak to reach and John seized the opportunity to look around, considering the probability of sliding around the corner of the school before Moriarty could return to the ground and reach for his gun. Not very probable, even without the threat that freezes the blood in John’s veins to ice. His parents, his caring, proper and innocent parents, must be saved at all cost. No one other John should be punished for his own mistakes.

“Why would you need to gain my trust?” he asks as he slowly turns back to watch Moriarty try the knot by pulling decisively at the rope a few times. “Why me?”

The man’s laughter only dies out when the shiny shoes are safely back on the grass and fingers with well-trimmed nails cup John’s chin.

“Don’t you see?” Moriarty teases, enjoying every syllable that leaves his lips. “It is all a game, Johnny. Just a silly game. You are not important. You are simply the unfortunate bastard who happened to get involved. You are a tool. A pawn in a game of chess, sacrificed to get to the king. I want Sherlock.  I want Sherlock to show his true potential, to try to match my intelligence. To cure the boredom that has pained me for years. Instead he distracts himself with drugs. With the sinful pleasure of the flesh.”

Moriarty’s eyes drop to John’s lips and, with John’s chin firmly in place, he leans down to kiss him. The kiss is rough, impersonal and without passion, everything that Sherlock’s kisses are not. When Moriarty pulls back he looks unimpressed, once and for all convinced that Sherlock’s affections are a waste of time.

John wipes his lips on the back of his hand, still determined not to give the man the pleasure of seeing his disgust.

“So you know Sherlock.”

“Knew him,” Moriarty corrects him. “If only by name. Back when I was walking those hallways as a student.”

Moriarty nods in the direction of the school and John turns his head to look. That is when he sees it. Crossing the lawn towards the parking lot and towards the end of the school grounds, walking from the sport fields with a pair of rugby boots around his neck and with a ball in his hand, is Sebastian.

Scary, strong, wonderful Sebastian.

John’s heart skips a beat. He never thought that he would be so genuinely happy to see the Greaser. It is difficult to think clearly with his body suddenly filled with adrenaline, with hope, but once John realises what he must do, he does so without hesitation. He walks around Moriarty, coaxes him to face him rather than Sebastian’s distant frame.

“But Sherlock is younger than you,” John points out and Moriarty raises an eyebrow at the eagerness in his voice. 

“Yes. By five years. I met him when I was eighteen, the little brat used to sneak in to listen to our lectures. He would sit there in his shorts and ask questions as it were the most natural thing. Then Carl Powers drowned and the little brat was convinced that it wasn’t a tragic accident. He became rather obsessed with the whole affair; it was most amusing to watch him run around. Until his brother decided that his prying was inappropriate, and pulled him out of both the case and my classes. I missed him.”

Moriarty’s voice turns almost sad, if he is capable of such emotions, but John's eyes are accusatory when they leave Sebastian to instead focus on Moriarty.

“Everyone thinks Sherlock killed Carl. That rumour has followed him around for years. People fear him.”

Anger builds inside John. Sherlock may be a shuckster, hardly worthy of John’s full-hearted protection, but it pains him to know that Sherlock suffered through years of unfair accusations.

Moriarty’s laugh only fuels his rage.

“Sherlock did not kill Carl,” Moriarty murmurs. “I did. I never liked him, so he had to die. And now it is your turn, Johnny.”

Moriarty waves him towards the tree, gun in his hand.

His time is up; the questions are no longer welcome.

John’s legs are numb when they carry him to the oak where a vertical path up to the noose already has been demonstrated by Moriarty. Sebastian is too far away, even if he now has stopped in his path and, from what John can tell, gazes in their direction. Besides, even if Sebastian did decide to investigate the events underneath the oak more closely, what could he do against a loaded gun ready to fire through flesh and bone? The answer, however disheartening, is nothing. He is beyond all help, left all alone in a world that he is about to leave.

He climbs the branches of the oak with Moriarty’s giggling ringing unpleasantly in his ears. He can understand the man’s inappropriate amusement, as the symbolism is so loud and clear that he cannot ignore it. He entered a road of self-destruction and now he is placing the noose around his own neck.

Moriarty does not notice that Sebastian is coming towards them, hesitant steps taking him across the soft grass as John's odd behaviour attracts his attention. The dark, dilated eyes are fixed solely on John, barely blinking in determination not to miss a second of John's last, shaky breaths.  

John closes his eyes. Prays for peace. Prays for Sebastian’s safety, that he will not follow John into the afterlife because he happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time.

John does not want any blood on his hands.

His feet leave the branch they have been balancing on. His body falls, his hands clasp the rope above his head and his toes just barely touch the ground, just enough to give him a second of false hope before he realises that he cannot give himself any proper support.

“Hey!”

The whizzing in his ears is louder than Sebastian’s panicked voice. He cannot breathe. The rope presses his windpipe into a two-dimensional shape, the blood is throbbing behind his closed eyelids. He opens them for a second, wide, terrified eyes staring straight ahead as his blue lips open in a desperate attempt to inhale. He will suffocate, or the weight from his body will snap his neck. He does not which will come first or which he prefers. Which will offer him the most peaceful end to the torture.

The wind catches his hair, lifts it towards the sky. It reminds him of Sherlock’s gentle treatment, the only memory that can give him harmony. The beautiful boy with the beautiful eyes and the beautiful hair.

The boy who John fell head over heels in love with and for whom he never stopped falling, plunging into the dark pit of his own demise.

He wants to open his eyes but his heavy eyelids fail him. He wants to reach out, touch Sherlock one last time, but he cannot do so. His body is numb, empty. The ringing in his ear turns into a beautiful melody. It soothes him, brings him peace.

The sharp noise of a firing gun fails to distress him.

The scream, building from somewhere deep within an injured body and leaving parted lips in a heartrending shriek barely reaches him.

Steps, a thud, and body falling to the ground, and then, at last, darkness.


End file.
